


What Dreams May Come

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones/ASoIaF Crossover
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, F/M, Family Secrets, Final Battle, Friends to Lovers, Pregnancy, Revenge, Romance, Secret Marriage, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, Twins, Warging, Zombies, possible spoilers through ADWD, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 100,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post ADWD, Sandor Clegane has overcome most of his demons and leaves the Quiet Isle. To make amends to Sansa, he travels north of the Wall, gives the Starks a measure of justice and begins a new life. Just when they dare to start anew, with the looming threat of the White Walkers and Stannis Baratheon's ambitions, the possibility of a better future seems like an unattainable dream for Sansa and Sandor. </p><p>Jon enlists Danaerys and her dragons to end the White Walkers once and for all in hopes Sansa and Arya will be able to restore the Starks to Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ghost from the Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girloficenfire](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=girloficenfire).



> Cover art commissioned by me and designed by Metalshell or Nachan as she is known on Deviant Art.

Bitter winds from the Frostfangs carry the sharp clean smell of snow over the land south of the Wall. Thick lush evergreens flecked with snowflakes flank each side of the icy trail, eventually giving way to an empty wasteland of ice. Sandor Clegane dismounts from Stranger, choosing to lead him and the packhorse on foot the last few miles as an extra precaution over the treacherous terrain.

The layers of fur in addition to the heavy leather and wool clothing he bought in the Vale are little deterrent for the biting cold, leaving Sandor cursing the relentless wind of the north. The frigid cold sends fresh stabs of pain shooting through his scarred thigh, serving as a nagging reminder of his past battles during trip northward. Reaching into his pocket, he touches the delicate strip of pink silk folded inside: a memento of his days in King's Landing, a precious reminder of Sansa, the reason he chose to make this brutal journey in the first place.

Sandor spotted the eight thousand year old massive ice fortification two days past. Though it appears no closer, several Nights Watchmen he met while hunting assured the weary traveler that the thinning forest was a sure sign of his nearness, less than a half day's ride from Castle Black.

This is the second time he has made the journey, hoping to be admitted north of the Wall for the chance at a new life and perhaps a new beginning with the little bird. Her Lord Commander brother turned him away two moons ago and he cannot help but wonder if by now she has learned he is alive. Determined to see her, today Sandor is carrying cargo that will not make it so easy for Lord Commander Snow to turn him away.

By midafternoon, Sandor Clegane arrives at the massive iron entrance called simple the Gate, guarded by several young green boys outfitted in the grim black clothing of the Night's Watch. "Ser, what business do you have at Castle Black?" the youngest man calls out, his voice barely matured into the timbre of adulthood. "My name is Sandor Clegane and I seek admittance to the lands beyond the Wall," he rasps low, watching the men exchange nervous glances, no doubt recollecting his past appearance here. "You were already turned away by Lord Snow once Clegane. He doesn't want your kind up here."

"Tell the Lord Commander Snow I have business with him regarding Winterfell and the Stark family." The youth standing closest to him stares blankly. After eyeing him a moment Sandor recognizes him as Podrick Payne, Tyrion Lannisters former squire. "I know you, boy. Don't tell me you've forgotten this face," Sandor sneers, barking out a snarling laugh. "Give up on squiring for the Imp I see." Being reminded of Tyrion drives a familiar black rage though Sandor's veins though his face remains impassive, gazing warily at the young man.

"I know you too, Hound. Last time I saw you, you abandoned the battle of Blackwater, leaving my lord to fend for himself," Podrick replies, his voice breaking with apprehension. Sandor's face twists into a grin, giving the hulking man an even more fearsome appearance. "Aye, true enough lad. My only regret is I didn't kill the bugger when I had the the chance. If the gods were good, they'd have burned him that night," Sandor sneers at him. "I hear the little bird married him but later shit on his head and flew away. Good on her. The lass has wolf in her after all, wouldn't you say?"

Stiffening, Podrick watches Sandor apprehensively, well aware of the Hound's abilities in battle. "I killed Ser Mandon and besides I don't answer to you anymore, Hound. You best move on from here." Glaring at the boy Sandor cannot help but admire his spunk though his patience is threadbare. "Killed Mandon huh? Not much of an accomplishment, that."

"Nothing you could say will convince the Lord Commander to allow passage of the former Lannister man who held his sister captive." Chuckling low, Sandor sizes up the young man, his lip curling into a smirk. "So says a former Lannister man himself. Bugger that. How did Ned's bastard boy take the news you were once a squire for his sister's husband? Did you tell him all about the wedding the Lannisters forced upon the little bird? Bet you spared him that detail now."

Podrick stands motionless while the other guards digest this information. "Don't act like you're better than me, Payne. We both served the Lannisters; the only difference is, I don't lie about what I am." Podrick casts an uneasy glance at the men around him. "How did a little buggering bastard like you get all the way up here anyway?"

"Not that it concerns you but I came as Lady Brienne's squire." Sandor remembers her from the day she and Pod visited the Quiet Isle in search of the Hound and the Stark girls. He stood right beside the wench and she never once guessed it was him or even asked him to remove his cowl. "Enough talk, boy. Lead me to the Lord Commander now," Sandor barks.

Another young man steps forward, red faced and heavy and a bit older than the others. He appears to be the highest ranked man there and carries a maesters' bag strapped to his side. "Sandor Clegane, the Lord Commander on the Wall will not wish to speak with you of that I'm certain." Stepping forward Sandor leans down and brings his face within mere inches of the young man, his steel gray eyes glinting with rage. "What's your name, runt?" Casting a sidelong look at the other men around them he replies, "Samwell Tarly, ser. I am the Maester here."

Narrowing his dark gray eyes, Sandor leans in closer still. "Well Maester Samwell Tarly, bugger your sers and you, too. Listen well because I'll only say this once: I don't answer to a bunch of pups. If I'd wanted I could have cut through the lot of you without even breaking a sweat so spare me your insolent tone."

The guards glance at each other nervously while Sandor regards them with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "I don't have all day to jaw away the time with a bunch of scared shitless green boys. You best remember the Hound is never far away. Tell Lord Snow I've brought him a peace offering that will interest him. Quick now, before I lose my temper!" Sandor growls, his deep voice like metal scraping against stone. Swallowing hard, Podrick and Sam scurry back into the castle, leaving the other young men gaping and staring at him.

* * *

Kneeling in front of the lone heart tree north of the wall, Sansa recites her usual prayers: for Winterfell, Arya and Jon's safety and an end to the war. Thoughts of the past disturb her worship, a familiar occurrence ever since she learned Sandor Clegane was alive. Much to her disappointment, Jon turned him away, which was hardly surprising yet caused her a great deal of sorrow just the same. She has felt a connection to the man ever since the night the Blackwater burned, for time and experience has given her a much different perspective on the man and his actions toward her in King's Landing.

Though a man long accustomed to battle, Sansa recognized he was afraid, alone and in need of comfort, just as she was that night. They were not so different from one another, not really-both outcasts among the Lannisters, unwanted and unloved. He was drunker than she had ever seen him and thus more open about expressing his feelings as was his pattern. Looking into his deep gray eyes as he held the cold steel blade against her throat, she had been gripped with fear until she glimpsed his soul for the first time and saw the man rather than the Hound.

"You won't hurt me," she whispered and watched his bloodshot eyes fill with tears at her words. Cupping his burned cheek, she felt the hot tears wet her hand as she sang the Mother's Hymn. Suddenly his body relaxed under her touch. He was no longer the Hound or Joffrey's sworn shield, the man in her arms was Sandor Clegane, a man afraid of the wildfire.  "Little bird," she heard him rasp low, holding her so close in his arms she felt his gravelly voice echo through her body.

"No, Little bird I won't hurt you," he choked out before tearing off his cloak as he moved away from her. Sansa remembers tarrying on the verge of agreeing to go with him but she hesitated moment too long and when she looked up he was gone.

Over the years following that night, regret has been her constant companion. She was entirely too young at the time to discern the intentions behind the brutal exterior of the Hound. Sansa only comprehended much later it was merely  a form of armor he wore among the Lannisters, no different than her own mask of courtesy she used to survive them. On many occasions since she has pondered how different her life might have been had she taken him up on his offer.

Plagued with self-doubt, she laments she was not  mature enough to understand his reasons for trying to help her in the first place. So preoccupied was she with how he offered she overlooked a vital truth that night. After much contemplation, she has come to the conclusion that part of him empathized with her situation as well. In retrospect, she now wonders if his behavior at times meant that he may have even cared for her.

Knowing it is pointless to speculate about such things, she nevertheless cannot help but wonder if she is romanticizing him. _Perhaps he would have regretted taking me once he sobered up after all. Or maybe it is just as likely he would have kept his word and taken me home. Would he have helped Robb if I had asked him to? If he indeed cared for me and had taken me home, he most certainly would never have allowed Theon to seize Winterfell._

She cannot help but speculate if perhaps going with Sandor may have somehow altered the fate of her mother and brothers. Her reasoning is based not on logic but on the nagging uncertainty she has carried with her ever since that night. Such pointless musings have become a regular part of her life, robbing her of her peace of mind.

Alone in the Eyrie, she spent many hours pondering these thoughts while Lord Baelish entertained his whores. Sandor had visited her in her dreams over the years and the nagging questions soon returned too. Upon learning of his death from Lady Brienne she grieved deeply, knowing the answers to her questions were now buried on the Quiet Isle along with the beginning of something inside she is unwilling to name.

Sansa longs for the chance to talk to Sandor as a woman grown. Never would she be able to make Jon understand why she is haunted by him, why she needs answers to settle the matter once and for all. Jon's turning him away cheated her of that opportunity and she can barely contain her frustration with him during their daily interactions.

Today she brought his bloody cloak with her to the Heart tree. His survival is the gods answer to her prayers, of that she is certain. _Once more they have seen fit to give me the chance to see him again, that must mean something._ Fingering the rough material lightly, Sansa remembers what it felt like to have him drape his cloak over her. She prays he will return to the Wall and to her. _Somehow Jon must be moved to allow him admittance._ Silently she prays the two of them will find a measure of peace and a new life north of the Wall, maybe even as friends of sorts. If nothing else, she would like to communicate her feelings to Sandor about that night and in so doing close the chapter on that part of her life once and for all.


	2. A Gift of Fealty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You honor my father and my family, Clegane, more than you may realize as a Westerman. I will gladly grant you any land you choose among the lands in White Tree for your loyalty. The area was once populated by clans of Free folk. Now the camp is all but abandoned, save for displaced Free folk of various tribes and other refugees seeking a fresh start north of the Wall."

Podrick and Sam come across Jon standing in the Tower of the Guards, gazing out over the King's Road. "You men, is that Clegane back again trying to come north of the Wall? His rough voice carries all the way here." Swallowing hard, Sam replies, "Sandor Clegane once again wishes admittance, my lord. He also requests you meet him at once inside."

 _Sandor Clegane._ The very name invokes the day King Robert came to Winterfell with his retinue of over three hundred men in Jon's mind. The whole family watched their grandiose arrival anxiously, his sister Sansa being the most excited of all. It was the first time she saw Prince Joffrey and his bodyguard the Hound.

Jon knows he cannot understand entirely what she suffered at the hands of the Lannisters, yet her behavior towards him since he turned him away has him baffled. He would have thought she would be glad he shielded her from him and instead she had set her jaw, glared at him and left the room without a word. Puzzling him further, she has spoken very little to him since then. After conveying that Joff's fearsome bodyguard with his terrible scarred face became the man that helped her in the den of lions, she told him she was displeased he had chosen to turn him away and hoped he would not do so again.

"He says he has something to discuss with you about Winterfell." Raising his brows, he gestures for the men to follow him. "Well let's see what he has to say, shall we men?" Nearing the Gate, Lord Commander Snow signals the guards to raise the iron gate and escort Sandor inside. Walking toward the towering giant of a man, Jon cautiously greets him. "Sandor Clegane, we meet again. We heard up here you died along the Trident some time ago."

"I heard that one myself, Lord Commander Snow. The Hound died and was buried there is a more accurate statement." Sandor replies.

"My sister has related to me how you watched over her in King's Landing and while I admit I had my doubts, I owe you my sincerest gratitude for that."

Sandor shrugs, grunting in reply. Jon's words trigger a familiar refrain in his mind: _I didn't do half of what I should for the little bird. She deserved better from me. I should have thrown her over my shoulder and carried her out of that pit of vipers rather than leave her for the Imp. I may not be fit for the likes of her but I can keep her safe at least._

Sansa has been very sorrowful since returning north and Jon hopes seeing the scarred man from her past will lighten her spirits. Turning to Podrick, Jon whispers, "Go to White Tree and fetch Lady Sansa at once. Keep in mind Lady Brienne's account of my sister's reaction to the news of his death. I expect you to deal tactfully with her in this matter, as she is still recovering from her ordeal. Have her wait for me in my solar and keep her company until I arrive."

Jon has kept the details of her escape secret and even Podrick does not know the entire story. Lady Brienne had been scouting alone when she found Sansa wandering aimlessly in shock, barefoot and knee deep in snow. It took several days for Sansa to share her ordeal with her and to her credit Lady Brienne related Sansa's full account to him alone. Jon has respected her silence on the matter, hoping once she feels more secure in her surroundings she will confide in him.

Podrick remembers Lady Sansa's anguish all too well. Sansa paled and then sobbed until her misery rendered her sick and incapacitated with grief. Lady Brienne felt it wise to take her to an inn and for a week she neither slept nor ate. He and lady Brienne watched the young woman staring out over the mountains of the Vale with a passive empty expression in her lovely eyes. They both had been most concerned for her safety both physically and mentally and Podrick wished he knew how to better comfort the wife of his former lord. Keeping his thoughts to himself, Podrick nods and bows low, "Yes, Lord Commander Snow, right away."

Overwhelmed with nervous anticipation, Sandor wonders if he heard Lord Snow correctly. _Snow is sending for the little bird now?_   Watching the boy take his leave, Sandor pauses to regain his composure. "I did what I could for the girl Lord Snow, though I regret not enough. I am a changed man now. I lived on the Quiet Isle with the brothers of the Seven and you will find me very different than the man you met in Winterfell. The Hound is dead."

Raising his eyebrows, Jon folds his arms and gestures for him to continue. "I told your sister Arya if I ever came north I would swear my fealty to your brother, though at the time I did not realize the Young Wolf would be killed. I am a man of my word, if nothing else. I understand I need to prove myself to you. To this end, I have brought the traitors of your family to you, Lord Commander Snow. Consider it a token of my loyalty to House Stark."

Pulling the blanket off the packhorse Sandor reveals three bodies, startling Jon, Sam and the other Night's Watchmen guarding the Gate. Studying Sandor closely, Jon steps forward guardedly while turning the first corpse toward him. A familiarly lean headless man wearing a breastplate bearing the kraken symbol of House Greyjoy lies across the horse. _Theon._ He was a man Jon once viewed as a brother, raised alongside him and Robb in Winterfell. Theon  enraged him by taunting his position in the family when his father gifted him Ghost but now only a sinking emptiness fills Jon at the sight of his lifeless body ignominiously lying before him.

"I brought his head too my Lord should you wish to see it."

Shaking his head, Jon pats Sandor on the back and shakes his hand solemnly. "No, I will see it when I bury them. My father would have wished it, regardless of their crimes."

"As it pleases you, my lord," Sandor replies with equal solemnity.

Watching the scarred warrior, Jon recognizes Sandor is neither proud nor sorry for the lives he has taken. It is a feeling Jon knows all too well, having experienced it many times since reaching the Wall. _Sandor Clegane is a changed man indeed,_  Jon muses and is startled to find his own grim feelings mirrored in the man's dark expressive eyes.

Walking around to the other side of the horse, Jon lifts the second body revealing the face of a woman he does not recognize. She is wearing a man's leather jerkin and pants and an axe is still strapped at her side while a necklace with an iron kraken pendant adorns her bloodied neck. _Asha Greyjoy. For all her rumored battle experience, she was completely caught off guard,_   Jon notes grimly to himself, his mind momentarily returning to Ygritte.

"I gave her a quick death," Sandor shrugs, gesturing to her head. "She was a fighter to be sure. I didn't want to leave her alive only to have her and her men seek revenge later."

Leaning in closer Jon notices her neck is broken yet her vacant eyes wear a haunted look of surprise even in death. "Yes, I can see you did just that," Jon mutters, taken aback to find the former Hound, once the fiercest fighter in the Baratheon and Lannister armies, has taken a life such a merciful fashion.

Stunned, Jon walks away, needing a moment to process this unexpected turn of events: _Sandor Clegane returns from the dead and manages to kill both Theon and his sister._ Not knowing what to expect next, he examines the third bodyon finds it unremarkable except that it belongs to an old frail man who is also headless. Opening the accompanying sack, he immediately recognizes the weasel toothless face of Walder Frey and cannot help but think what Robb would have said to these turn of events. "Come inside Castle Black, Clegane. I would speak to you privately."

Leading Sandor through the winding passageways under the castle, Jon opens the door to his command room. Though he is curious as to how Sandor managed such a coup, he does not wish to ask Sandor just yet especially when he appears deep in thought. "You honor my father and my family, Clegane, more than you may realize as a Westerman. I will gladly grant you any land you choose among the lands in White Tree for your loyalty. The area was once populated by clans of Free folk but now the camp is all but abandoned, save for displaced Free folk of various tribes and other refugees seeking a fresh start north of the Wall."

"Thank you, my lord," Sandor says, bowing low.

Jon gestures for the scarred man to sit and listens with rapt attention as Sandor relates how he ambushed the Greyjoys just outside Winterfell's walls. Sandor managed to execute them just as Stannis Baratheon and his troops approached the castle, engaging the Ironborn and giving Sandor an easy escape in the melee.

When Sandor finishes, Jon smiles. "Amazing Clegane, that is quite an accomplishment. You need not swear fealty to me for I am in no position as Lord Commander of the Wall to accept such a charge. However, my lady sister may well be in need of your services, if that would suit you."

"Yes, of course Lord Snow, it would be an honor." Sandor rasps out with difficulty, his breath taken by Jon's suggestion.

"You must understand Clegane that I cannot help but be curious as to why you felt the need to perform such an extraordinarily dangerous feat. You must be aware as a member of the Night's Watch there is no coin that I may offer you."

Sandor remains silent, pensively lost in thought. He isn't rightly sure he knows himself. How can he even begin to explain to Jon his many reasons for killing the traitors of the little bird's family? How could he even begin to explain to the young man that his beautiful sister's smile and touch is perhaps the only time he can recall anyone showing compassion towards him? How would he make the young man understand that this is the only comfort he feels capable of offering her?  His mind flashes back to the serpentine steps and the comfort Sansa offered him when he was drunk and bitter.

She is the only woman who ever willingly touched him and looked him in the face, not with revulsion or fear, but with concern for his desperate state. Many times in King's Landing he was moved by her grace and bravery. Though captivated by her beauty, her kindhearted ways are her greatest allure. Once he experienced the feel of her soft hand on his face, his heart tenderly responded to her. In that darkened room alight with the green glow of wildfire, he shed the first tears of his adult life while she sang to him and from that moment on Sandor knew he would never be the same again. Sansa saved his life; he owes her far more than he could ever hope to repay.

Ever since the day Petyr Baelish arrived on the Quiet Isle looking for her, Sandor knew he would search the ends of the earth to find her. He promised himself that once he did, he would gladly spend his life keeping her safe. Swallowing hard, Sandor steels himself and fixes his gaze on the stone floor. "I owe the girl that much, at least-for the times I wanted to do more for her. For Sansa and your younger sister, too, my lord."

"I see," Jon replies, knowing full well Sandor tried to ransom Arya back to Lady Catelyn and the man kept his spirited sister from getting killed at the Red Wedding. Before she left for Braavos with the mysterious Jaqen Hgar, she confided it was Sandor that helped her retrieve Needle. "My family and I will forever be in your debt, Clegane. You will always have a place in our home and our table, I swear it. Now, that only leaves Petyr Baelish to finish off and then I will be satisfied, for dear Sansa's sake, at least," Jon cryptically responds, rising to his feet.

Rage surges into Sandor's eyes at the mere mention of the man, his face paling beneath his scars. When word reached the Quiet Isle that Petyr Baelish indeed held Sansa Stark in the Eyrie, he  imagined the worst. Elder Brother convinced Sandor to go to the Vale in search of her the very same day Lord Baelish arrived at the sept seeking information about the missing girl he claimed was his daughter. Petyr had heard the female knight Brienne of Tarth had visited the sept and knew she was in service to Catelyn Stark, leading him to believe Sansa must be on the Quiet Isle.

Sandor was proud of the little bird for flying away from the devious Littlefinger. Having spent his fair share of time in Baelish's brothels, Sandor is all too aware of the horrors she most likely experienced living with the man. Only the feel of his shortsword carving into Littlefinger's flesh pacified his fear for her. After hurling his lifeless body into a tributary of the Bay of Crabs, Sandor said farewell to Elder Brother and followed Brienne's trail.

Scouring the inns and taverns for news, Sandor finally overheard a drunken sellsword say his partner had been killed by a large woman dressed as a knight for grabbing her young redheaded charge. "I came across that wench," Sandor offered, buying the man another round. "You know which way she is headed?" Another man had said she was taking the girl to her brother and after Sandor bought him a wineskin, he immediately embarked on the trip north to the Wall, having remembered the little bird's bastard brother was a member of the Night's Watch.

Realizing it has been some time since he spoke, Sandor puts his thoughts aside. "Thank you, my lord," Sandor answers gruffly, uncomfortably shifting on his feet. "But I have handled that matter as well, Lord Commander," Sandor mutters, tossing Baelish's mockingbird pin on the desk.

Taken aback, Jon's mouth slowly works into a terse smile as he marvels at the efficient killer before him while fingering the intricate ornament caked with blood. "It seems you have settled the Stark's affairs most admirably. You certainly live up to the name the Hound. I'm hopeful upon learning of your acts of loyalty my sister will find a measure of peace at last, knowing she never need fear these traitors again."

Staring at the battle hardened man before him, Jon does not tell Sandor that the young girl he once knew is a woman now who has been despondent since hearing of his death. He refrains from saying Sansa shakes almost constantly, the slightest noises and movements causing her to flinch in fear and that he worries she may never fully recover from her ordeals.

Though she appears fragile, he has witnessed the normally soft spoken Sansa time and again vehemently defend Sandor Clegane to anyone who dares slight him in her presence. Since her arrival, she daily makes the long trek in the freezing cold to the lone Heart tree north of the Wall. Although Jon does not meddle in her activities, he suspects she mourns him there while alone with her sorrow and memories.

Frowning, Sandor meets his gaze and nods before resuming staring at a spot on the floor, his heart racing at the mere suggestion of the little bird's misery. Watching the scarred man's discomfort, Jon realizes he is upset learning of her unhappiness. The young man decides not to press for details about their relationship. The pair unquestionably share a mysterious and powerful connection and though their unspoken loyalty to one another somewhat concerns him, he is all too aware that war and crisis forge unusual relationships not easily broken.

 _I will leave them alone to their own devices for the time being._  Jon shakes his hand and moves toward the door. "If you would wait here, Clegane, I would like to speak to my sister in private and then I will send her in to you. She will be most excited to see you, I am certain of that."

Watching the young lord close the door, an unexpected lightness fills Sandor's chest at the thought of seeing his little bird. If pressed, he would call the feeling happiness.


	3. A Wounded Bird Meets the Tamed Hound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opening the door, Jon discreetly watches as Sansa quickly approaches Sandor, propriety stopping her a few feet away from him, her eyes filling with tears. Rising, Sandor's face twitches into a half grin as he looks her over, uncomfortably shifting on his feet, visibly nervous. "Little bird," he finally rasps low, carefully reaching out his hand to steady her. At the sound of his pet name for her she tentatively takes his large hand into her own, giving him a shy smile.

Podrick all but ran to Sansa upon his arrival in White Tree. So eager was he to tell her about Sandor, the young man did not even hesitate to interrupt her prayers.

Smiling to herself while she folded the white cloak, Sansa carefully placed it into another bag out of view. She listened carefully as Podrick spoke of Sandor's request and how Jon allowed him into Castle Black once he saw what the man brought with him. Sansa asked no questions and in fact she said not a word as Pod lifted her into the saddle for the trip to Castle Black. Lost in her thoughts, Sansa solemnly awaited her reunion with the fearsome Hound, not quite sure what to expect from him.

Seated in the weirwood chairs in Jon's office, the two wait anxiously for the Lord Commander.

"Now my lady, you promised to act surprised," he chides, bashfully daring to look at her. Having spent many months at the Wall living only with men, Podrick finds he is especially shy in the woman's presence now.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she gives the young man the first smile he can remember from her since hearing of Sandor's death.

"I will, I promise Podrick. I'm very glad I had a chance to learn this news privately first, from a friend." Blushing deeply, he shyly smiles at her, knowing that even after their travels they are truly only acquaintances. Still he finds he very much likes hearing her call him a friend just the same.

Footsteps near the door signal Podrick to rise as Jon enters.

"Sansa, I have some unexpected news: Sandor Clegane has returned to the Wall."

Gasping, she raises her hand to her throat though a small smile instantly betrays her.

Jon glares at Podrick in response. "You told her, didn't you?" he grumbles, his eyes twinkling.

"My Lord, I can explain-" Podrick begins while Sansa grabs both of Jon's hands, smiling.

"Oh Jon, do not scold him. I am very glad he did. This is just the kind of news one needs to hear from such a kind man as Podrick Payne."

Her words send a flush down Podrick's cheeks, earning him a glare from the Lord Commander.

Eying his normally reserved sister, Jon's curiosity is aroused. Sansa's visibly improved demeanor has not escaped his notice. He expected her to be pleased but Jon senses another emotion he does not dare name.

"He claims he is no longer the Hound and means to swear fealty to the Starks. Clegane has brought the bodies of Theon and Asha Greyjoy as well as Walder Frey to demonstrate his loyalty. Stannis Baratheon was on his heels and he had to make a hasty escape from Winterfell."

"He killed both Theon and Walder Frey?" Visibly stunned, Sansa sinks back into her chair. "This is most unexpected." Pausing, she watches Jon for his reaction to this information. "And to think Stannis Baratheon is in Winterfell? Father would never believe it. Stannis is a very stubborn man. I fear he would never allow Sandor to go unpunished for his part in the Blackwater Battle." Viewing her obvious apprehension with curiosity, he studies her closely as Sansa slowly walks over to the window.

"Do you think he came all this way to collect Sandor?"

Laughing, Jon shakes his head. "That would surprise me greatly. I would imagine a man like Stannis has other ideas. What is even more surprising is the Hound wishing to swear fealty." He remarks casually while observing her from the corner of his eye.

"Oh, indeed that is a surprise. To whom does he wish to swear it?"

Smiling, Jon puts his arm around her. "He wishes to swear fealty to me as the last surviving male of House Stark; he does not know Bran and Rickon live. Clegane says when he held Arya captive he wanted to do so before Robb and…" his voice trails off and Sansa's eyes fill with tears.

"I told him however I cannot accept him." Jon watches Sansa's face fall, casting her eyes downward as he speaks. "Perhaps you may wish to take him into your service. What do you think, sister? Do you want the Hound to bend the knee to you?"

She senses the jest in Jon's tone, knowing as he does that as a little girl she would have loved nothing more to have her very own sword shield, a fearsome warrior who would lay his sword at her feet. But Sansa is not that summer child any longer, neither can she ever go back to that age of innocence.

Wrinkling her brow, Sansa is conflicted. It is not Sandor's ability she questions, for he protected her well enough in King's Landing; but she is a far different person now. After all she has endured, Sansa is most unwilling to subject herself to his drunken behavior and insults.

Much needs to be said between them to convince her to accept him into her service. "If he wishes to serve as my sworn shield, I will consider it, though I would not have him bend the knee. He has always hated knights, and for good reason, I discovered. Might I speak with him first before agreeing, brother? There is much that needs to be addressed before I would consider taking him on permanently. I hope you understand."

"Sansa, I well remember his behavior in Winterfell. Of course, you may take as much time as you wish."

 _He has no idea what Sandor is capable of doing even to me; if he did he would never suggest such,_ Sansa thinks, involuntarily shivering as she relives the feel of his blade at her throat, the smell of wine burning her nostrils as he pressed her close to him.

"However, I must tell you, Clegane claims he is a changed man and has been living on the Quiet Isle with the brothers of the Seven for the past several years."

 _Sandor Clegane living in a sept?_  

"Yes, well, let us hope it is true for both our sakes. Sandor has never been one to lie. It is rather hard to feel safe here when you are so busy and…" her words fade, a faraway look clouding her features.

She is plagued by flashbacks day as well as night and Sansa knows Jon wishes her to accept Sandor in hopes that having a sworn shield will end her misery. The gesture endears her brother to her all the more but Sansa does not believe Sandor's company will solve the problem. Still, there is much Sansa believes may be gained from having him near once again.

Blinking back her tears, she forces a smile onto her lips. "Yes, I would more at ease with Sandor beside me, brother. However, please permit me to speak to him first before we settle on it. Thank you so much for your kindness."

"It is nothing, Sansa. I am glad to do anything that will give you more peace of mind. There is more, prepare yourself: Clegane also killed Lord Baelish and brought back his mockingbird sigil as proof," he says, offering her the pin.

Recoiling, Sansa shakes her head. "I am most grateful to him, brother, but I do not wish to have it near me. You may keep it, please."

Nodding, Jon puts it inside his drawer. "I will not have it anywhere near you ever again. You know the man better than anyone here. Why do you suppose he would do all of this for us?"

Shrugging, she bitterly asks, "What does it matter, dear brother? At last he has given us a have a measure of justice for our family."

Jon squeezes her close. "Clegane has finally given it to the miller whose children Theon claimed was Bran and Rickon; let us not lose sight of that. I only wish I could have stopped Theon myself. Do you want to see the Greyjoys?"

Once, she would have shied away from the brutal confirmation of Sandor's actions. The day he rescued her, she could hardly stand to look at him after he killed her attackers and it has shamed her ever since. _"The Little bird still can't bear to look at me, can she? You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though,"_ his rasping voice echoes in her ears. It has been a source of sorrow that she never told him how grateful she is to him, for saving her then and many other times besides.

Since then, Sansa has learned life indeed is not a song and through her trials she has grown into a far different woman than the girl he rescued during the riots.

"Yes Jon, I would look upon the bodies of those murderous traitors one last time." Taking his hand, she turns to him. "And please, no more talk about yourself in such a way. Only the gods know if things could have turned out differently or if you and I both would have ended up dead. You did what you had to do-we both did.  The important thing is that we survived." J

on and Sansa have grown closer since she has returned and as adults have reached an understanding that was sorely lacking in childhood.

"Come, I will bring you to Clegane." Slowly rising from her chair, Sansa takes Jon's arm while struggling to control her trembling.

It has been several years since she has seen him and yet memories of his behavior once again send anxiety churning through her blood. "Yes, let us go. What do you think Stannis wants, Jon?" she asks, nervously wringing her hands. A familiar panic rises in her throat as she remembers the sounds of the fighting the night of the Blackwater battle.

"He wishes to speak to me about some matters tomorrow. I will know more of his objectives then," Jon says.

"Will he try to take the lands north of the Wall?"

Shaking his head definitively, Jon replies, "No, Sansa, there is nothing to fear. Neither he nor his troops are even remotely prepared for this place and besides that is not his intention. I am not at liberty to say more at present."

Opening the door, he discreetly watches as Sansa quickly approaches Sandor, propriety stopping her a few feet away from him as her eyes fill with tears.

Rising, Sandor's face twitches into a half grin as he looks her over while uncomfortably shifting on his feet, visibly nervous.

"Little bird," he finally rasps low, carefully reaching out his hand to steady her.

At the sound of his pet name for her, she tentatively takes his large hand into her own and gives him a shy smile. He is very much the same as she remembers: still heavily muscled as a bull and now clad in leather pants and studded jerkin rather than his former light armor.

Even without armor, he is still by far one the largest men she has ever seen. Long black hair dips below his shoulders and obscures the scarred side of his face. Daring to glance into his eyes, Sansa notes the greatest change of all. Once, they were perpetually bloodshot and brimming with rage and bitterness, but now his deep gray eyes are solemn and peaceful, reminding her of the pool in the godswood at Winterfell. His expression softens as he returns her gaze and it is altogether such a remarkable change that Sansa finds herself momentarily speechless as she regards him.

The memory of his gentle little bird saved him as he fought his way back to health on the Quiet Isle, and Sandor finds himself quite overwhelmed to suddenly find himself in her presence. Sandor has hungered for the sight of her. Unable to resist, he takes the opportunity to carefully drink in every feature as she stands before him wearing a small smile, her cheeks blushing prettily as he looks her over. Intently, Sandor watches as she offers a trembling hand to him which he carefully takes into his own.

Beholding the beautiful woman she has become, Sandor is beguiled by her delicate grace. Her face is more angular now and her porcelain skin is still as pale as the snow of the north. Her fiery red hair is a shade darker than he remembers and hangs loose to her tiny waist. She is taller, and her body has matured into the soft curves of womanhood since he last saw her. It is in Sansa's eyes, however, that Sandor witnesses the greatest change. Though still beautiful and Tully blue, now they bear the same haunted expression as the little she-wolf. Sandor is troubled to see her thus altered, knowing it is a result of her experiences since he left her in King's Landing.

Observing the reunion curiously, Jon notes Sansa's guarded demeanor vanishes and she even looks at ease in the gentle grip of the fearsome warrior. Her smile reaches up to her eyes and her warm expression is mirrored by the scarred man softly looking down at her.

At the sound of the door closing the couple looks around, surprised to find they are alone. Sandor leans on the weirwood desk to bring his face level with hers. The couple spends several long minutes savoring the sight of the other in silence. "

Sandor," she whispers, breaking the stillness by tentatively raising her hand to his burned cheek. "You've come back just as I prayed you would."

Her touch painfully reminds him of the night of the Blackwater. "I said I'd have Florian and Jonquil from you," he rasps, and she laughs in spite of her emotion.

"I had no idea you would come back from the grave for it." Sorrowful memories cast a dark shadow over the pair both tentatively observing the other.

"I see you flew away from your lord the Imp just as I had heard."

"He was never my husband in truth. Our marriage was dissolved quickly enough when the septon in the Vale learned of it," Sansa quietly replies, staring at the floor shyly.

"I am very glad of that, Little bird, for your sake." Raising her eyes to his, Sansa meets his gaze for the first time since entering the room, her penetrating blue eyes taking his breath away. " _You must ask for forgiveness if you want to start anew,"_ Elder brother's works echo in his ears. Falteringly, the man begins the apology he has practiced the entire trip north.

"Little bird, I should not have acted the way I did when last I saw you. I have deeply regretted my actions. I've worked hard to change." Pausing, he swallows hard, a familiar self-loathing searing through his conscience as he remembers his drunken behavior toward her. _Remember what Elder brother taught you. Asking for her forgiveness is the first step to a new beginning._

Gazing into his eyes, Sansa sees they are clear and calm and no longer full of anger and bloodshot from drink. As he speaks, she feels inexplicable drawn to him. Emboldened by her observation, she shyly breaks the silence stretching between them.

"Sandor, I prayed for you that night, though I knew you didn't keep any gods," Sansa whispers, wringing her hands nervously.

The man can see how uneasy she is. As he watches her avert her eyes, she bears a similar expression he often saw during her captivity. _After the way I treated her in the past,  no doubt she is afraid I will mock her or bark some insult. The poor little bird escaped the lions but not without scars._

In light of all that transpired between them that night, Sansa's declaration startles him. _She prayed for me? Before I came to her room?_ Sandor cannot recall anyone ever praying for him before. Hearing the prayers of those whose lives he was about to take is more what he was accustomed to hearing. Her words deeply affect him and he can only stare down at her hand, so delicate in relation to his own.

"Did you now? What did you ask them for?" he asks, gently drawing her closer to him, willing her to see she has nothing to fear from him now.

"Yes, I prayed to the Mother she would keep you from harm and that she gentle the rage inside you." Sansa answers softly, shyly moving closer to him.

Shame fills his heart, not for the first time since that night.

"Did you find peace, Sandor? I feared you would find it only in the afterlife."

Shaking his head, he looks down at their entwined fingers. "Aye, I found a bit of peace, lass, though not the measure I wished for. That is why I am here." Struggling for words, he dares to meet her eyes once more and expectantly she returns his gaze, eagerly waiting for him to continue, intrigued by his words and the changes both in speech and actions. "Sansa," he mutters low, turning his eyes away from her. "About that night, the way I acted, I-"

Squeezing his hand, she softly interrupts him in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Please, Sandor, we both have lived with our mistakes. I regret not going with you even though I was very afraid. I should have stopped being such a foolish little bird for once and recognized you too were afraid and yet still you offered to take me with you."

He has many times regretted making her feel foolish, how freely he made heartless remarks to her, she who is the only woman who ever treated him with kindness.

"You were not the foolish one, girl, believe that."

Smiling hopefully, she continues, "We are both very different people now. We have enough regrets in the past and the gods have seen fit to give us a new beginning here and now. Let us start over. What say you?"

Looking down at her, he can hardly believe her words. Sansa is so very beautiful, her soft skin warm against his calloused hand. The Little bird is looking into his eyes with such openness that he pushes aside his reservations and dares to hope this indeed may be the beginning for which he has prayed.

"Do you mean it, Little bird? There is a hell of alot that needs to be said, Sansa. Think on it a moment, now."

Nodding, she smiles tremulously at him. "Yes, I know. But let us not rehash our mistakes. I would like us to start over from this day, if it pleases you."

"Aye Little Bird," he answers, taking her hands and patting them softly. "We can start over, beginning now."

Shyly she moves away from him, a blush spreading across her cheeks. "You are to be my sworn shield?"

Grinning at her wickedly, Sandor barks out a harsh laugh. "Would you like that, Little bird? I'll keep you safe though I'm not the pretty sort of knight you wished for, I'll wager." Moving closer to her, he asks, "Do you remember your last words to me, Sansa?"

Blushing, she slowly closes the distance between them. "You won't hurt me."

He solemnly nods, "I never will, Little bird, I swear it, and I'll kill anyone who tries. I will not let you down."

Gentle knocking on the door disturbs their reverie and Jon peeks around the door. "Clegane, I have taken the liberty of having one of the cabins nearest your new charge readied for your arrival."

"Thank you, my lord," Sandor replies with a bow.

"Sansa, I will entrust you with the responsibility of teaching your new guardian the ways of the Free folk. Show him to the log home with the evergreen in front, would you?"

Drawing in a deep breath, she timidly loops her arm through Sandor's, taking him by surprise with her boldness.

"It would be my pleasure, brother. Come Sandor, I will take you to your new home. I live in White Tree. I hope you will like it there as much as I do."

Once they are out of Castle Black, Sansa turns to him once more. "You are the only man I would entrust with my safety, Sandor. You have always hated knights so very much and I myself have lost all use for them, save for Lady Brienne. I would not have you bend the knee if you do not wish it. You have already done so much for my family."

Raising his eyebrow, he solemnly looks down at her. "I told you I'll keep you safe and by gods no one would hurt you again or I'll kill them. I mean to keep my word, Little bird, I owe you that."

Folding her hands, Sansa looks into his eyes. "Then I will accept you as my sworn shield on a trial basis, Sandor Clegane. I would never ask you to bend the knee, however. I would like us to try to be friends." Sansa shyly replies, blushing prettily her voice sincere and full of hope that at once touches his heart.

"Aye, we'll do that," he replies, shaking his head and grinning at her. Walking along beside her with a light snow falling around them, Sandor is happy for once in his life, satisfied just to be near her once again.


	4. An Offer of Marriage in Exchange for Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis' thin lips stretch into a taut line, a feeble attempt at a smile. "She is a Stark by right and by blood. I wish to see the girl return to her ancestral home as wife to my esteemed bannerman Lord Adragon. It is an arrangement that would prove most beneficial to both of us." The young man steps forward, nervous and ready to offer all necessary assurances of his fitness as a potential suitor for Sansa.

At dawn each morning Sandor exercises his great black warhorse, scouting the area for anything unusual. He has heard rumors his entire life about the creatures beyond the Wall-the undead White Walkers, giants, mammoths-but from what he has seen so far, there is little in the area as dangerous as he is, save for the Lord Commander's enormous white direwolf. Sitting astride Stranger on the craggy ridge overlooking White Tree, Sandor watches Stannis' small retinue approach Castle Black with apprehension, unable to dismiss the feeling the Baratheon soldiers signal things are about to change.

Since his arrival and appointment as Sansa's sworn shield, his presence has drawn a fair amount of curiosity, leading the villagers to ask many questions and severely testing Sandor's already limited patience. Everyone thus far has treated him well and, save for the initial stares, most people ignore his scarred appearance.

Many of the clansmen seek him out for sparring exercises and hunting trips, viewing his fearsome disfigurement as a sign of prowess and bravery. Earning the goodwill of his new neighbors has been fairly easy. Chopping firewood and assisting Sansa with assorted chores for the elder folk has already won him more friends than he cares to have.

By patiently educating him in the ways of the Free Folk, Sansa is preparing Sandor for an entirely new way of life that is a vast improvement over digging graves. Without uncovering any genuine threat to Sansa's safety, he passes the time peacefully with Sansa as she teaches him skills essential to survival in their new home. One day, he thinks he may even grow to like living in White Tree, if it wasn't for the buggering cold.

Spurring Stranger to a gallop, Sandor ponders the changes in his life and how he might help Sansa, ending his meditation with a prayer to the Seven. Never has he spent as much time in the company of any woman, except the time he spent guarding Cersei, but that was a very different duty. He is grateful to discover that despite her association with the Queen in King's Landing, the Little bird could hardly be more different from the Lannister lioness.

As gracious as she is compassionate, Sansa offers help generously to everyone. While helping him settle into the village, she gently paves the way for Sandor to make friends while teaching him the local customs and necessities of life beyond the Wall.

Sansa has changed since he left King's Landing and with the passage of time he learns the woman his Little bird has become. He cannot help but be proud of her. She is more reserved and wary, just as he always hoped she would learn to be. Sansa is less likely to yield to the will of others and whether she is speaking to her brother or the local people, the young woman willingly offers her ideas and opinions, no longer peeping the courtesies her septa taught her.

It pleases him to find her thus and even more so to discover the qualities that initially drew Sandor remain strong in the young woman. Yet for all that Sansa has changed, there is much that remains of the lovely girl he first saw in Winterfell. Each day he spends with her he observes the wolf-like strength of her family sigil. Generosity of heart and refined manners all remain a deeply ingrained in her, unbroken by living among the Lannisters. Serving the lions most of his life, no one comprehends better than Sandor how difficult a thing it is that she managed to do. He is proud to see his Little bird has not permitted her past sufferings to change her entirely.

To his delight, Sansa is more open and at ease around him. As of late, he catches her shyly smiling at him throughout the day and has taken to regularly asking for help and advice, holding his arm as they walk around camp. Sandor enjoys being with her more than he would have thought possible. Whether she is teaching, working or just walking quietly at his side, the man feels a sense of completeness he has never known. Most importantly, his lovely Little bird always looks directly into his eyes just as he always longed for in King's Landing.

The Little bird has not embraced him since that first day. Though he yearns for her touch, he does not press her and respectfully keeps his distance, hoping she will one day wish for more from him as well. As they spend more time together, Sandor patiently waits for Sansa to learn the man Sandor Clegane is no longer the Hound she remembers. Slowly but surely, a delicate bond gradually grows between the pair, steadily replacing the guarded encounters of the past. It is everything he has wished and prayed for since awakening on the Quiet Isle. Now having experienced such closeness with her, Sandor finds himself craving more of her time, more of her touch, more of everything with her.

A warmer, deeper sentiment has taken root in his heart and the new and entirely unexpected experience both thrills and terrifies the man by turns. At night he lays in bed and replays the time spent with her in his mind. The feel of her warm hand squeezing his bicep, her deep azure eyes twinkling in amusement as she watches him work, the rosy blush of her cheeks when he teases her-every part of her captivates him, body and soul.

The young man Podrick rides up from the west at a gallop, interrupting Sandors thoughts. Slowing to a trot as he draws near, Pod's new horse neighs and Stranger nickers low in response. "Clegane, Lord Snow desires me to tell you that Stannis Baratheon and his troops have arrived at Castle Black. In view of Lady Sansa's words, he requests that neither you nor she come to the castle until the men leave. Samwell will bring word once they are gone."

Grunting, Sandor nods while eying the fine sorrel destrier the young watchman rides. "Give Lord Snow my thanks for the warning, boy," Sandor rasps, "Shoe that horse when you get back to the castle. I don't like the way he moves that back leg."

Surprised, Pod nods in assent, "Thank you, Clegane; I'll do just that."

"I'll head back now," Sandor says, turning Stranger toward White Tree and spurring him once more. "You let the Lord Commander know I got the message and will do as he asks."

* * *

As Sansa's cabin comes into view, he silently gives thanks to the old gods and the new for all that has transpired since he arrived two moons past. "The old gods be with you, Clegane." Several of the clansmen greet him as he enters the village. "And to you," Sandor grunts in response, remembering his manners for the Little bird's sake.

Sansa emerges from her cabin with Nan, the eldest member of the clan. Smoothing her hair and straightening her skirts, she waves as he rides up and greets him with a winning smile that lights up her lovely face. Grinning at her, he nods to the older woman as well before disappearing into the stables, where he curses himself as a besotted fool as he removes Stranger's tack.

Disappointed he did not stop for a visit, Sansa sighs sadly. She was thinking of surprising him with an invitation to worship with her at the Heart tree. Turning, she sees the old woman watching her closely, a wide grin spreading across her face. "Your man may not be anything to look at but he is right good to you, lass. You best not take such for granted."

Sansa blushes though her interest in Nan's words gets the better of her. "What do you mean? Tell me please-I've been so long without my mother there are many things I do not understand."

Jerking her chin toward the stables, Nan smiles knowingly. "That man loves you true, plain and simple. You best do right by him and let him know you feel the same."

 _Sandor loves me? Is it that noticeable?_   Sansa often wonders if he has feelings for her but never dared think he may actually be in love with her.

"You noticed he has feelings for me? Is it obvious that I have-feelings for him too, then?"

Laughing, the woman pats her on the arm. "Sweet, the whole village can see it. I'd best be off now. You do like Nan says, you hear? Take good care of that man and he'll make you a fine husband."

 _Sandor Clegane, a husband? And a fine one at that?_   The very idea thoroughly astonishes Sansa. She knew he visited Baelish's brothel in King's Landing and he admitted to her that he desires women. Still, the thought never occured to her that he would even _want_ to be a husband, let alone that he might make a good husband for _her._  Sansa finds she cannot help entertain the notion now that Nan planted the idea in her mind.

Ever since Sandor came to White Tree, he has been so very good to her. Indeed, the changes he has made in his personality are very pleasant and their time together is most enjoyable. Recently, she finds he occupies her thoughts more and more and that she laughs and smiles more when he is with her. "Thank you for your help, dearest Nan. I will let him know, I promise. Thank you for the blanket," Sansa calls from the porch, glad for the chance to be alone with her thoughts.

By midmorning, the day is uncharacteristically warm for the north and Sansa has made up her mind: today she will do just as Nan recommended. Surprising the man, Sansa invites Sandor to walk to the godswood and soon the couple makes their way to the nearby weirwood stand while the afternoon sun shines high overhead.

* * *

"Where are your younger brothers now, Lord Commander Snow? We understood the Greyjoy traitor did not execute them as previously believed." Stannis Baratheon asks while surveying the spartan surroundings inside Jon's solar with derision, much as he had the rest of Castle Black during his tour. Flanked by four guards, Stannis is also accompanied by his bannerman Lord Adragon of House Celtigar. A young man close in age to Jon, and he is quite a wealthy one at that, judging by his fancy sword and armor.

"Lord Stannis, rest assured I know my brothers' whereabouts but beyond that I am not willing to divulge more information. Theon Greyjoy killed the miller's children in their stead. He was executed for his crimes against them as well as our family." Jon has no intention of telling them his brothers are with the Reeds at a safe distance from the fighting.

"Word came to us that it was _Sandor Clegane_ who killed Theon and Asha Greyjoy as well as Walder Frey. Have you confirmed this?" Stannis struggles to stay calm but Jon can hear the impatience rising in his voice as he speaks.

"Yes, I have confirmed Sandor Clegane did indeed see the traitors to justice in true northern tradition." Remembering Sansa's words, he refrains from divulging that Sandor Clegane is now in White Tree. "Why do you ask? I sense there is more to these questions than just your effort at making polite conversation with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Pacing, Stannis affirms Jon's suspicions. "Indeed there is, my lord. I see bastard or not you share your father's inclination toward forthright communication. Let us speak plainly Lord Snow: with your brothers gone, your ancestral home remains occupied by outsiders. Your father was fond of saying there must always be a Stark in Winterfell as there has been for many generations." Eying Stannis, Jon studies the battle weary man closely. "I would wish to see a Stark restored to your family seat in Winterfell. It is a proud northern tradition that deserves to continue in spite of the war. As a man sworn to the Night's Watch, I am sure would not oppose the privilege falling to your eldest sister, Sansa."

 _So this is what he is about._ Glaring at Stannis and Lord Celtigar,  suddenly understanding floods Jon's mind. "That is correct. As Lord Commander on the Wall, I would not be able to accept such a privilege." Moving closer, Jon looks into Stannis' eyes with trepidation; the man is known for always having an endgame and Jon worries where he believes Sansa will somehow fit into his plan. "Why do you wish to give it to Sansa? Should she marry, she would not carry the Stark name."

Stannis' thin lips stretch into a taut line, a feeble attempt at a smile. "She is a Stark by right and by blood. I wish to see the girl return to her ancestral home as wife to my esteemed bannerman Lord Adragon Celtigar. It is an arrangement that will prove most beneficial to both of us."

The young man steps forward, nervous and ready to offer all necessary assurances of his fitness as a potential suitor for Sansa. "It would be an honor my Lord. Your sister comes from the most honorable families in Westeros. Be assured I would treat her kindly and make a loyal husband. Your sister may have full use of House Celtigar's means of gain to restore Winterfell to its former glory in any way she sees fit. I will make her happy my Lord; I swear it on the old gods and the new." His words are well rehearsed and Stannis nods approvingly when the young man finishes his offer.

"I would be most pleased to ensure your sister's safe return to her home after captivity at the hands of my nephew. Having a daughter of my own, I would not wish the trials Sansa has endured on any young woman."

Stannis' words send anger pulsing through Jon. "I am 'bastard born' as you say, but do not take me for a fool. You need House Stark to bend the knee Lord Stannis, I am well aware of that. This has nothing to do with Sansa, or having a Stark in Winterfell for that matter. To make sure the North won't contemplate rebellion, you would have Sansa marry a man of your choosing and not a northern lord. You believe any northern man would rise to her cause and challenge you, if she should so wish, so this is your compromise-the guaranteed loyalty of the north and in exchange the Starks will be restored to Winterfell."

"Yes Lord Snow, a very astute observation indeed. However I'm sure I do not understand why you should find this displeasing. We are both men of the world and you understand the duty highborn maidens owe their families. I swear on House Baratheon, your family will have Winterfell, should you agree to this arrangement."

Smirking, Jon icily regards the man. "You forget yourself, Lord Stannis. Lady Brienne and my father's wife both saw the wraith your fire priestess conjured murder your brother. Forgive me if an oath sworn on your house inspires little confidence on my part."

Frowning, Stannis shifts on his feet and narrows his eyes, struggling to control his temper. "As winter approaches, your sister will soon be in need of protection Lord Snow and the north needs security. They will unite under a Stark in Winterfell and will survive, of that I am certain."

Undeterred, Jon continues, "Rest assured my sister is most secure, my lord. As a bastard of House Stark, I am in no position to arrange a marriage alliance on my natural-born sister's behalf, nor would I wish to do so even if it was within my power." Sighing, the young man motions for his guard to open the door. "My Lord, I will make the offer to Sansa, on both you and Lord Adragon's behalf on one condition: I expect both of you will accept her answer and broke no refusal on the subject should she decline. You have our word Lord Stannis: Sansa and I have no interest in raising a rebellion against you. You will have your answer tomorrow Lord Adragon; I recommend you not to get your hopes up as my sister is quite through with being bartered."

"Might I expect an answer from the lady herself?" Lord Adragon asks.

"It is the least the young lady may do for such an honorable proposal of marriage," Stannis adds, shaking Jon's hand. "I would urge her in the strongest of terms, Lord Snow, to accept this most generous offer. Having been married once and engaged twice, she is unlikely to receive such an honorable proposal again, especially considering her time spent with Lord Baelish is now widespread knowledge."

Fury sweeps over Jon at his words; however, the Lord Commander manages to still his wrath and his calm exterior gives no indication of his anger. Motioning for the men to leave, he curtly replies, "I would expect no less from you. If I may return the favor I would encourage _you,_ Lord Stannis, to give more consideration to the threat the White Walkers pose to us all and less to marrying off my sister." With that Jon shuts the door and leans against the structure as he contemplates Sansa's response. "Sam, we make for my sister's cabin at once. See to it the horses are ready at once."


	5. Confessions of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You would not have hurt me, I know it," she answers, patting his hand. "I saw it in your eyes, Sandor, and when I sang for you, I saw Sandor Clegane, not the Hound. You are many things, Sandor, but never would you behave like your brother and all the Dornish sour in King's Landing could not change that."

As they stroll together under the canopy of weirwood leaves, Sandor feels Sansa's hand tremble slightly in the crook of his arm and sees her cheeks flush pink while she timidly peeks at him out of the corner of her eye. After securing the area to his liking, he takes his place beside her and offers his own prayers to the Seven in silence. When he finishes, he makes the seven-pointed star across his chest just as Elder brother taught him. Upon opening his eyes he sees the little bird watching him inquisitively. Sandor cannot help but be amused by the look on her face as he waits for Sansa to work up the courage to ask him about his faith.

"Forgive me, Sandor it is very rude to stare I know. Seeing you pray to the gods is a most extraordinary sight. I don't recall you even believing in them. You made that very clear to me in King's Landing."

Sighing, Sandor sits on a fallen log, beckoning for her to come closer to him. Holding out his hand to her, he pauses and waits for her to accept it, silently willing her to see he will not mock her.

Tentatively she places her hand in his while allowing him to seat her beside him. "Aye, that I did. I should not have said such. You needed your faith to comfort you in that awful place, lass. It was not for me to take that away from you, regardless of my own opinions."

Shrugging, Sansa pats his arm. "It matters not now, Sandor and besides you saying there were no true knights caught my attention. Many of the things you said I recalled later, when I was mature enough to hear the words without thinking of the way you said them."

"Did you now? I'm surprised you remembered any of my nonsense Little bird. I hardly remember most of it myself." Cursing himself, he acknowledges that is only half-true; there was never enough wine to make him forget entirely. Sandor remembers the worst of it and longs to forget he ever spoke to her in such a way.

A small smile appears on her lips at his words. Sansa always wondered if he would or indeed _could_   remember, since he was usually drunk when trying to teach her his lessons. "You haven't asked me where I spent the last few years, Little bird. Aren't you the least bit curious what Joff's dog was up to?" His voice sounds more gravelly than usual and Sansa sharply looks up at the sound of the cruel boy king's name.

"Do not speak of yourself in such a way, Sandor. You were never his dog. That is how Joffrey viewed you, not me. It is true you protected him but you also many times protected me, even against his wishes." Sansa pauses, gathering her thoughts. "Of course I am curious where you went after you left King's Landing but I…I was not sure you wanted to speak of such to me."

Sandor swallows hard, struggling to convey all he has imagined saying ever since the day he left. "I…I was a sick man back there the night of the battle, full of hate and anger and wine-gods girl, you know that better than anyone. I couldn't stomach standing by and watching them mistreat you any longer. Many times I treated you every bit as bad as they did, though."

Her eyes full of tears, Sansa gently squeezes his hand sympathetically, making Sandor feel like the lowest whoreson imaginable. Clearing his throat, he tries to find the right words. "I lit out of there and eventually ended up injured along the Trident."

"Yes, yes-Arya told us that she was with you there! Lady Brienne said a brother of the Seven offered to show her your gravestone in the Saltpans," Sansa answers excitedly, squeezing his arm. "How is it you survived? Why was there a grave with your name on it? Surely the Elder brother did not lie." Sansa's lovely blue eyes are locked on his own.

Sandor can barely contain his emotion and as a result his sentences come out short and stilted. "A brother of the Seven who is a skilled healer found me-Elder brother he's called. He treated my wounds both physical and otherwise. I owe him my life, Sansa and more than that, he helped me learn a better way. I even learned a bit of healing from him, too." He glances at Sansa, waiting, wondering what is going through her mind.

"So, you found mercy among the brothers and a new skill besides! You cannot imagine how happy I am to hear this," Sansa draws in a deep breath and then continues. "I prayed the Mother would gentle your rage Sandor. I prayed she would save you…and not just from the battle that night."

Raising his eyebrow, he regards her seriously. "Prayed for me, did you? You could hardly stand to look at me back there."

"Sandor, only in the beginning did your scars scared me. It was always more your eyes, the anger and intensity I saw there that I feared most." Taking his hand into her own she looks him in the face, the compassion in her eyes threatening to overtake him. "In my worst nightmares I could have never imagined what you had been through. Ever since you told me about Gregor, your suffering has haunted me. Gods forgive me Sandor, I was too much of a child to know how to express my sentiments properly but the Mother understood and she answered my prayers for you," Sansa whispers, tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Hush now, none of that. Don't waste those tears on me, girl, it's over and done with." He chides gently, her tender display profoundly affecting him. Reaching into his pocket, he hands her a handkerchief and she laughs in spite of herself, recognizing it as similar to the one he gave her long ago.

"How is it you have a grave in the Saltpans? I was most grieved to hear of your death and meant to journey there and pay my respects after the war. I thought perhaps I might even bring your remains back north with me. I longed to have you near, a place to visit you even if you had gone to the afterlife."

"The Hound's grave is there, not mine," Sandor rasps low while running his hands anxiously down his legs.

"Things may have turned out differently if I had gone with you that night, for both of us," she offers low.

"No, Little bird, do not say such, damn it. You were wise not to go with me. I was drunk and so disgusted with myself I may have done worse than scare you. I doubt you'd have ended up feeling as kindly toward me as you do now."

"You would not have hurt me, I know it," she answers, patting his hand. "I saw it in your eyes, Sandor, and when I sang for you.  I saw Sandor Clegane, not the Hound. You are many things, Sandor, but never would you behave like your brother and all the Dornish sour in King's Landing could not change that."

Laughing bitterly, he gets up and walks away from her. "Don't be too sure, Little bird, I'm not a good man, never was."

Sansa places her hand on his shoulder, the feel of her touch sending tremors through Sandor's body. "Goodness has always been in your heart Sandor, or-"

Scoffing, Sandor barks out a laugh that sounds part growl and part rasp.

Ignoring him she continues, "Or you would not have been so moved to change. The Elder brother must have recognized it too. Sandor, you tried to help me in your own way, in the only way you knew how to help. I remembered your words. They served me well over the years." Sansa says softly. "You were right, you know, about the knights I mean."

"Aye, I suppose I was, though I regret you learned it the hard way, lass. A child should be allowed hold on to her dreams longer than you were able," he mutters, turning to face her once more.

"Yes, a child should," she whispers, looping her slender fingers through his own. "What is more, a child should not live with pain and fear as his constant companions." Cupping his cheek, Sansa smiles softly at him, "You may wear your scars Sandor but mine are on the inside. This pain is the common thread between us, is it not?" Her lovely eyes search his own, full of sadness and an unfamiliar emotion, warm and alive.

Choking back the tender affection she has aroused, Sandor tilts her face up to his, lightly stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. Leaning into his touch, Sansa closes her eyes, reveling in the feel of his rough skin against her face.

"Aye, that it is, Sansa. One day we will leave such troubled memories behind us."

Bitter tears well in her eyes as she shakes her head, "No, Sandor, do not wish it for then we would not understand each other half so well. I could not feel so close to you as I have in the past few weeks without it." Sansa whispers, her cheeks reddening as she boldly gazes into his eyes.

The heated emotion he sees there wholly unnerves Sandor. _What is the crazy bird getting at?_   He inwardly curses, wondering why he should feel so angry when her lovely face reveals the answer to his prayers-that there is more between them than friendship. "What is it you want from me, girl? I might've changed but you'd better well believe I'm still not a man to fool with," he snaps, his voice rough and raspy.

Startled, Sansa hesitates, wringing her hands. Annoyed for allowing himself a glimmer of hope, he shakes his head and walks out of the godswood. Hearing the sound of Sansa's small feet hurrying behind him, he recalls he is her guard and so he stops mid-stride, allowing her to catch up to him.

"Sandor, please wait. You must forgive me; your sudden harshness startled me." Taking his large hand into her own, she quietly says, "I…I know that I want to be close to you, that I want more with you but I've been through so much I cannot help but be afraid, too."

Smirking, he leans in close to her. "Afraid of what, Little bird? Afraid that Joff's scarred dog may want more from you than your smiles?"

As she stares into his stormy eyes, Sandor's heart opens to her. He is vulnerable and once again using his anger to mask his fear of rejection.

Sadly, she shakes her head, pressing her hand against his cheek before gently running her fingers through his beard and along the edge of his tunic to his collarbone. "No, you foolish man," her voice breaks, tearing a corresponding fissure through Sandor's heart. "I am afraid to _love_ , afraid to experience happiness with you, for once I do, I will spend my days dreading the most precious person will in my life will disappear." Desperately she throws her arms around him, drawing his head down to hers and tenderly kissing him.

"My beloved Little bird," he whispers, gathering her in his arms and clinging to her as though she holds his life in her hands. "The fucking Stranger himself could not take me away from you, you best believe that. I followed you all the way here just to see your face again. I had to show you I'm a changed man. I failed you in King's Landing, Little bird," Sandor strokes her cheek gently, "But I will never fail you again."

Bending down, Sandor hesitates and then gently presses his mouth against hers while running his hands through her hair. Sansa pulls him closer, instinctively deepening the kiss, opening her mouth to him and gasping as his tongue touches her own.

The couple is abruptly pulled out of the moment by the sound of hooves crunching in the snow and Samwell appears out of the brush cantering his large bay into the godswood. "My lord, my lady if you would excuse me there is urgent business that needs attending."

Sandor's face twists into a threatening scowl as he turns toward the young man with Sansa still wrapped securely in his arms. "Well if it isn't the maester? What do you want? No one is sick here. Can't you see my lady and I would like our privacy?"

Giggling, Sansa gently moves away from Sandor. "What is this urgent business Sam? Please, go ahead and tell us," she smiles, smoothing down her hair and skirts.

Sam gathers his courage and tries to ignore Sandor glowering at him. "Your brother would like a word with you my lady-and with you too, Clegane. Please make haste; he awaits you at your cabin."

"Do you know what this is about? I hope there is no crisis at Castle Black," Sansa politely asks, nervously exchanging glances with Sandor.

"No, my lady, he did not relate such to me," Sam answers, curiously watching Sandor wrap his arm around Sansa's waist protectively and pulling her still closer.

"It'll be alright Sansa. If your brother was ill, he would not have sent the maester here and he bloody well would not have ventured out himself. Let's go see what this is about."

Courteously Sansa smiles at Sam, though Sandor feels her hand trembling in his own, clearly alarmed by his words. "Thank you, Sam. Please let him know we will be along shortly. It may take us a bit since we travelled here on foot."

Bowing his head, Sam replies, "As you wish my lady," before turning his horse toward the village. Stepping forward, Sandor leans in close. "Don't you go telling your sister's business before first she speaks to her brother, understand? Or _you'll_   be the one in need of a maester, I promise you."

"Yes, my lord, you have my word." Sam agrees, wheeling his horse toward the village. As Samwell disappears into the lush snow laden forest, Sansa directs Sandor over to a decayed tree stump. Curious, he follows her lead, unquestioningly sitting down. Surprising him, she takes a seat on his knee and one of his hands into her own. "Before we see Jon, I need you to understand …I do not wish to be afraid with you, Sandor. I will not hold back for fear of losing you, you must believe me." Kissing his hand several times, her beautiful eyes never leave his and he sees her expression is full of trust, hope and affection.

Stunned into silence, Sandor's long suppressed emotions threaten to overtake him once again. Pulling her close, Sandor indulges his long-held wish to bury his face in her luxuriant hair, inhaling her sweet honeyed scent as he whispers in her ear. "Nor I, Little bird, nor I. I've spent enough of my life doing just that and I would wish a different outcome for us," he finally manages, nuzzling her neck and kissing along her jawline. "What is it you want from me, Sansa? Tell me."

His tone is gentle and he is looking at her with such longing Sansa is suddenly nervous, shyly caressing his face while searching his eyes. "My feelings for you are very deep. In truth, I have never experienced such strong feelings for anyone before," she begins haltingly. Hesitating, she kisses his face tenderly while gathering her thoughts. "I want to be with you, Sandor. I want whatever you are able to share," she finishes, surprising the man with her boldness.

"What if I said I wanted you-all of you-no matter the cost?" Sandor challenges as he meets her gaze.

Stunned, she stutters, "It would make me very happy Sandor, I-"

Barking out a bitter laugh, Sandor shakes his head and looks away from her. "Still haven't learned a bloody thing about the way the world works, have you, girl? For all his letting you alone, the Lord Commander will never allow you to court a former Lannister dog, let alone marry one. He'd sooner give you to that green pup Podrick Payne. Once he gets wind of this, he'll send me away faster than you can say maidenhead." Sorrow etches his features as he speaks, belying his half-hearted attempt at humor.

Abashed, Sansa moves away from him until the implication behind his coarse words reaches her heart. "Did you say _marry?_   Sandor, tell me truly: you would wish us wed?" She asks softly, turning his face toward hers. It has never occurred to her he would want married life with anyone, let alone seriously pursue a courtship to that end with her.

 _"A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman."_ Fixing her gaze on him, his former words echo in her ears yet the man before her is no longer the Hound who once scared her with those harsh words.  He  is Sandor Clegane, her sworn shield and friend. The man she has always believed fears nothing but fire is before her now, wearing his heart on his sleeve, his eyes betraying his deep fear of rejection.

 _Is it possible he desires a quiet family life with me? Could Nan be right-would he make a good husband?_   The revelation is startling and unexpectedly exciting to the girl. Lifting her by the waist he sets her on her feet as he stands. "What does it matter? No point in wishing for what will never be, girl, and you best get used to it." His words are deliberate, sorrowful and resigned and it breaks her heart to hear him sound so forlorn.

Moving in front of him, Sansa takes his hands into her own. "No, Sandor, that will not do-that is not an answer. You said you would never lie to me and always look me in the face. Please do not close yourself off from me now. Tell me, do you wish us to wed?"

The raw anguish in his eyes deeply dismays her. She can see has already given up on the idea of her and him, of _them,_ even before she is able to digest his words. "How long Sandor-how long have you felt this way? Please tell me."

"Seven hells, girl," he swears, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "This bloody well isn't the time to get into this," he growls and then more softly adds, "I'll answer you, Sansa but first we find out what your brother wants. Let it go." The fear in his voice and the pain in his eyes is agonizingly reminiscent of when he sat on her bed and asked her to leave with him the night the Blackwater burned.

Though he is no longer the Hound, she senses the hardened walls returning to envelope his heart, safeguarding him from her anticipated rejection. Drawing closer, Sansa places her hand over his heart. "Don't pull away from me Sandor, please I beg of you. Promise me we will speak of this later and I will let it go this very moment. Rest assured, you need not fear my response," she tenderly kisses his face once more, "Sandor, please do not give up on what has not yet begun."

As much as he longs for her, has ached for her all this time, the man cannot help but worry by revealing his true feelings he will damage the budding sentiments forming in her heart. "Sansa, I swear I'll answer you later. But with Stannis about a man needs his wits about him at such a time as this." His tone is softer and Sandor brushes her cheek with his fingertips as he speaks.

"I have a feeling Stannis' meeting in Castle Black has something to do with Lord Snow's visit, Little bird. You must prepare yourself."

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Sansa closes her eyes. "Gods, don't I know it. I just want to live a quiet life. Why can they not leave me be? I only want to experience a bit of peace-is that really too much to hope for?"

Wrapping his arms around her tightly, Sandor tilts her face up to his. "I'll keep you safe, even from your own kin if need be. Just say the word, Little bird and I'll take you away from here."

Standing on her toes, she gently tugs on his jerkin, covering his mouth with her own in a delicate kiss. "Thank you Sandor. I feel better, hearing that from you. Let us go talk to Jon." Slipping her hand into his, Sansa looks up at him, tenderness and something warmer shining in her eyes, offering Sandor a glimmer of hope as they walk back to the village.


	6. Jon's Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Gods be good, the man has been here among us less than two moons and already it has begun! I've never even met this Lord Celtigar." Shaking her head she recoils, her easygoing demeanor fading before his very eyes. "Brother, must I remind you that you are in no place to broker any such offer on my behalf?" Sansa begins icily, rising to her feet to face him. Ever ready to protect her, Sandor steps forward, a menacing scowl fixed on his already intimidating face.

Leading her by the hand through the forest, Sandor suddenly stops and turns to face her. "If you expect to get answers then you'd better be ready to answer a few questions, Sansa." Sandor's voice is not unkind but leaves no doubt that he will brook no refusals.

Sansa begins trembling. "Of course, Sandor I suppose that is only fair. What would you like to know?"

She has feared his questions, knowing it will inevitably lead to speaking of things she would rather forget. Knowing he killed Lord Baelish himself, she has an idea where Sandor's curiosity lies and it upsets her all the more.

Though visibly distressed, Sansa looks upon him with such trust and tenderness he can barely bring himself to make his inquiry.

"Tell me what happened to you, Sansa. I want to know what the fuck that buggering Littlefinger did to you. How is it that you tremble so?" Sandor asks quietly, struggling to keep calm.

Eyes downcast, Sansa slowly takes his hand and kisses him several times.

"Of course I will tell you. However, I believe it would serve us both if this could be discussed later-please Sandor?"

Smiling his crooked grin, Sandor squeezes her hand gently. "Aye, Little bird. Later it is."

The mere mention of Littlefinger has upset the little bird. Having no idea how to comfort a frightened woman, Sandor is at a loss for words, so instead he pulls her close, hoping the feel of his arms around her will give her a sense of security.

"It will be better for you to speak of it, Sansa. Elder brother listened to me. I can do the same for you. After I stood by and watched them beat you it is the least I can do."

Sansa fixes her gaze on him, surprised he is still full of shame over that day long ago.

"Sandor, the scars on my back from that day have been much easier to bear than the ones I carry inside my heart."

Swallowing hard, Sandor holds her chin in his hands tenderly, hoping his gentle touch will erase the memory of the painful pinches he once gave her. 

"You need not ever fear anyone ever again. I will keep you safe and I will kill anyone that tries to harm you, believe that."

Outraged by the suffering she has endured, Sandor barely manages to keep up a calm exterior. _"Your anger will not help her; only your love. The Mother will help you."_ Sandor hears Elder brother's words whispering in his ear and remind him to stay composed for her sake.

Tenderly kissing each side of his face, Sansa stares deep into his eyes.

"I know, Sandor. I trust you with my life-and my secrets," she replies with a sad smile while bringing her face closer to his.

 _I cannot allow her to see my anger or she will never confide in me. She needs me strong for her sake._ Sandor repeats the words in his mind, focusing instead on the feel of his beloved little bird in his arms and the look of trust in her beautiful eyes.

Sansa is warm and so very soft against him, her curves molding into his heavily muscled body. The warmth of her delicate hands on his face and her soft full lips pressing against his skin send heated sparks of desire surging through him, leaving Sandor painfully aching with need. Reluctantly he sets her down and they resume the walk toward the cabin hand in hand, silent, each deep in thought.

Jon is sitting on a bench outside Sansa's cabin with Ghost napping peacefully at his feet when they arrive in White Tree. Sandor notices Sansa does not release his hand as her brother curiously stares at the two of them.

"Jon, this is an unexpected pleasure! I hope all is well with you on this fine warm day, brother," she smiles, kissing him lightly, never loosening her hold on Sandor.

Raising his eyebrows, Jon clears his throat and grins. "I am very well Sansa, thank you. I'm happy to see you and Clegane out and enjoying yourselves."

"Indeed. It was most pleasant to pass the afternoon worshipping in the godswood. If I had known you were available I would have asked you to join us."

Crossing his arms, Jon leans against the door frame. "No Sis, I've been in a meeting with Stannis Baratheon. Sansa, please be seated. I have something important to discuss with you."

Sinking down on the bench Sansa nods, her eyes never leaving Jon's. Immediately he regrets ever agreeing to approach her with Lord Celtigar's offer.

"Stannis wishes me to convey an offer of marriage from one of his bannermen, Lord Adragon Celtigar. Stannis is willing to return a Stark to Winterfell through this alliance and secure the loyalty of the northmen."

"A marriage proposal?" Sansa asks incredulously. "Gods be good, the man has been here among us less than two moons and already it has begun! I've never even met this Lord Celtigar."

Shaking her head she recoils, her easygoing demeanor fading before his very eyes. "Brother, must I remind you that you are in no place to broker any such offer on my behalf?" Sansa begins icily, rising to her feet to face him.

Ever ready to protect her, Sandor steps forward, a menacing scowl fixed on his already intimidating face.

Jon hurries beside Sansa and takes her hand in his.

"No, Sansa. Please, calm yourself, sister. I would not force anything upon you, I am merely relaying his wishes. You must believe I only made the offer as a gesture of good will toward Stannis. I conveyed my distaste for this arrangement from the start and made it perfectly clear that this is entirely your decision to make, you and yours alone. By the Seven, they will accept your answer, no matter their opinion of it."

Grunting, Sandor shakes his head contemptuously.

"Stannis wouldn't know how to _just accept_ anything, Lord Commander, let alone the word of a highborn girl. The man is like cold iron, he'll break before he bends. You believe he doesn't have his own plan should this one fall through?"

Glancing at Sandor, Jon continues cautiously. "Nevertheless, I will stand my ground. I'll do whatever is necessary to keep you safe Sansa. Your wishes will be honored." Kneeling beside her, he softly says, "I am not so blind, sister, I can see your affections lie elsewhere and have for some time now."

His words bring a guarded smile to her lips. "While I admit I have my own reservations about your choice, rest assured I will respect it. I will not trouble you with this any further. In fact I already regret even mentioning it to you to begin with."

"Forgive my response brother. You have many times reassured me you would not force me to do anything and I allowed my fears to overtake me. I know you are in a very difficult position, Jon, but this is all so uncomfortably familiar. Please understand, I do not wish to wed anyone other than the man of my own choosing."

Sansa sneaks a quick glance at Sandor who keeps his deep gray eyes averted, wearing the mask of indifference she saw many times in King's Landing.

"If you wish, I will make my intentions known to Stannis myself," Sansa offers genially.

Shrugging, Jon stands and rouses Ghost. "If you want to do so that would be most helpful but if you do not wish it, I will do it myself."

Clearing his throat, Sandor interrupts. "Excuse me, Lord Commander but as Lady Sansa's sworn shield, for the sake of her safety I believe it would be best if you handled it. Stannis is not one to take no for an answer."

Mulling it over, Jon slowly assents. "Yes, I agree, Clegane. Sansa, think no more on it. I will tell Stannis and Lord Adragon tomorrow," Jon says as a large group of Baratheon soldiers and several camp followers walk past them, leering at Sansa and laughing.

Sandor grips his greatsword, his eyes following the men. Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, Sansa leans over and hugs Jon and then glances up at the sky, shivering as the late afternoon light begins fading into blackness.

"I am truly sorry for my behavior, brother. Let us retire indoors, shall we?"

"Do not apologize, sister. I will not barter you to anyone, rest assured. Forgive me but I need to return to the castle. We'll get together another day, alright?" Jon grins at her and watches her go inside,  then turns to Sandor seriously. "Clegane, it would ease my mind for you to keep Sansa with you with the Baratheon soldiers about. I don't trust that red witch of Stannis' either and Lord Adragon may not wish to stay away from her especially once he hears of her beauty."

Sandor bows his head, "As you wish my lord."

Jon steps closer to him and leans in. "Stay with her day and night, understand? And try to keep her presence around camp to a minimum."

"Of course, Lord Commander Snow. Do you wish to send over another guard as well? I would not have the Little bird dishonored in the village with our arrangement."

Shaking his head, Jon smiles, "There would be no negative judgment among the Free folk should you stay with her without a chaperone. They do not hold to the same moral conventions as the rest of Westeros. As her brother, well, admittedly it goes against my upbringing but Sansa trusts you and that is good enough for me." Unable to resist needling the fearsome man, Jon continues with a grin, "As much time as the two of you spend together, the Free folk already think you two are married in truth, if not in law."

Flustered, Sandor stammers, "My lord, I would not-" before Jon's laughter breaks the tension between the men. "I trust you will not dishonor her; if you were such a character, Sansa would have never trusted you. Should you wish for her hand, however, I expect you will come to me first before you take her to wife." Whistling to Ghost, Jon mounts his horse, laughing as he rides away.

Cursing under his breath, Sandor settles himself on the hearth and watches as Sansa busies herself inside the cabin. "Little bird, your brother wishes me to stay with you until the soldiers leave-day and night."

Smiling, she beckons him inside and places extra furs for him on the bed before readying the evening meal. "I am so very glad! You staying with me will certainly put my mind at ease, especially after Jon's disturbing offer. I cannot believe Stannis would even consider it. Lord Adragon indeed!"

"No one will hurt you or make you do anything, Sansa. You're safe with me. I'll keep saying it and one day you'll feel it."

At Sandor's words she stops her preparations instantly and goes to him, placing her hands on his face as he looks up at her. "And I will continue telling you how deeply I care for you, until you no longer fear telling me the desires of your heart."

To Sansa's surprise, tears fill Sandor's eyes. Abruptly he  goes outside and vigorously chops firewood long after darkness has settled.

After they sup, shouting and laughter fills the camp, signaling the arrival of yet more camp followers and soldiers. Sandor watches from the window, a grim expression clouding his face as he straps his short sword to his thigh.

"Just in case, Little bird," he mutters when he notices her growing alarm.

The couple passes the evening peacefully, sharing stories of their time spent apart. Sansa tells Sandor of the jousting dwarves at Joffrey's wedding, causing him to shout out his harsh rasping laughter at her description. A loud knocking on the door interrupts their merriment.

Gesturing for Sansa to cover her hair, he waits until she finishes wrapping a scarf around her head before unsheathing his sword and jerking the door open.

Standing behind him Sansa cringes, watching his demeanor transform into the terrifying Hound she remembers all too well. "What is it? You buggering bastards make it a habit of pounding on stranger's doors in the middle of the night?" Sandor barks, glaring at the men.

"We heard laughter and thought maybe you were having a party ser," one man replies, sneaking a peek at Sansa and grinning.

"Think you might've come upon a woman of ill repute is more like it. Thought if you acted nice you might get a turn, did you?" Curling his lip, Sandor angrily steps forward. "Bugger that. This is my cabin and my woman in it. Get the fuck off my property." Danger radiates from the scarred man as he moves closer still.

"Our apologies ser," the soldier closest to Sandor stammers, clearly afraid, while the rest of the men slowly back off the porch.

Several clansmen walk past slowly to watch the exchange, "Is all well Clegane? These men troubling you and your woman?"

"No trouble to me. They're leaving." Sandor answers with a nod towards the soldiers, still holding his sword. "Should they tarry, they'll get more trouble than they bargained for."

The clansmen laugh and move only a short distance, waiting to see what will happen next.

"You boys better leave if you know what's best for you," the older man calls, causing the rest of the men to break up once more.

The soldier nearest the cabin door steps into the lamplight. "Clegane, I know you from somewhere, ser. Did you serve in Lord Stannis' army?"

Snorting, Sandor shakes his head and watches the man's eyes go wide with fear. "No…no I recognize you now. You're the Hound. I saw you fight at Blackwater-you cut a man clean in half right before my eyes. You're the only man besides Lord Stannis who was not wearing a helmet that day."

"The Hound is dead, boy. You'd do well to go back to the village and stay clear of me, you hear? You come near my woman again and I'll cut you open, balls to brains." Sandor growls before roughly slamming the door.

Sandor notices Sansa sitting on the hearth, anxiously wringing her hands as he closes the door. Walking over to her, the man pulls her close, whispering in her ear.

"Those bastards are nothing to tremble over, Little bird, I've got you."

Shyly she smiles at him and moves to the bed, blushing prettily as she turns down the covers. "The Hound is mostly dead, I would say," she giggles softly, causing him to laugh as well. "I would not have you, um, sleep on the floor on such a cold night Sandor," she whispers, twisting the blanket in her hands.

"Oh yes? Where do you want me to sleep, Little bird?" Sandor asks innocently, his eyes twinkling in amusement, all remnants his anger at the soldiers quickly evaporating at her words.

"Here with me. We can share," she gestures to the bed, her cheeks now blazing at her brazen behavior.

Laughing, Sandor shakes his head, "Aye, I'll sleep next to you. Do you think I'm fool enough to turn down a pretty maiden's invitation?"

Shuffling away from him, Sansa averts her eyes, her cheeks reddening further, the young woman painfully embarrassed by his words. "I would not turn you away," she begins and Sandor bursts out in laughter, unable to let her finish.

"Little bird, I'm not going to ravage you so don't fret. I very much enjoyed your kisses earlier but I would not take you while you are under my protection-by the gods I'm not that much of a dog."

Visibly relaxing, she steadily meets his gaze and smiles before climbing into bed. Watching her settle in, Sandor hesitates before lying down beside her and pulling her close in his arms. "Goodnight dearest," she whispers before softly kissing him on the mouth, the tenderness of the moment deeply moving him.

Never has a woman willing shared her bed with him, held him, or called him by such an affectionate endearment. Sandor realizes Sansa has aroused in his heart both needs and desires the man never knew dwelt within him.

After leisurely kissing her for a while, he snuggles her closer to him and revels in the feel of her hands stroking his chest. The rhythmic motion of her caresses quickly soothes him into sleep, his last thought of the night being no dream will ever compare to this wonderful new reality with his beloved little bird.


	7. Sansa Tells Sandor her Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa wraps her arms around his neck and buries his face in his hair, her words pouring out. "I ran out into the snows of night in a panic…I walked for I don't know how long, praying to the gods for help, praying for death. I thought there was nothing left to live for. Lady Brienne and Podrick found me…by then I had lost my shoes…she cared for me, helped me recover at a nearby inn. It was there I learned of the Hound's death…I wanted to die myself just so I would see my loved ones again. Once I was well enough to travel she brought me north to Jon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have placed an asterisk (*) next to a paragraph of a non-graphic description of Sansa's experience with Littlefinger. Please be assured there is no physical assault but I wanted to provide a warning for my readers just in case. The asterisk is there so you can skip the paragraph if you prefer and still enjoy the rest of the chapter.
> 
> The name for Sansa's mare Sugar is a nod to one of my favorite Sansan fics, Something to Worship by Starbird1. :D

Heavy snowfall has kept the couple indoors for several days. Ever wary of the Baratheon soldiers, Sandor leaves only to retrieve items from Sansa's cabin, chop firewood or care for Stranger and Sugar, Sansa's blonde mare. He has carefully avoided Stannis' men and takes great pains to make sure Sansa remains out of their view. During this time the couple has shared stories of their time spent apart, of past trials and heartaches endured since King's Landing. At night lying under the furs, Sandor curls around her protectively. Sansa has grown comfortable with their unconventional arrangement, allowing herself to relax and enjoy the feel of his arms around her as she drifts off to sleep. For Sandor, having the Little bird all to himself and falling asleep in her arms every night is his deepest wish fulfilled. This time spent with her is the happiest he has ever known.

The day dawns bright and crisp, the first sign of fair weather in days. Eager to enjoy the open air Sansa proposes, "Let us go for a ride out of camp today, Sandor. There is a lovely place I wish to show you not far from here."

Grinning, Sandor nods approvingly. "As you wish, Little bird. We'll leave this place to the soldiers for a while," he replies. After they break their fast, he heads outside to saddle Stranger.

"A half hour's ride upslope is a huge weirwood forest the likes of which you've never seen," Sansa says excitedly as Sandor lifts her up on Stranger. Though he could have easily saddled Sugar, he does not, preferring instead for her ride in front of him. The scarred man cannot help but feel immensely pleased to notice Sansa does not seem to mind and instead settles in front of him, resting her back against his chest. "It is home to the most beautiful of trees. Oh Sandor, I just know you will like it."

Chuckling, he climbs up behind her. "Alright, show me the trees, Little bird," he mutters, turning the horse northward.

Within a short distance a vast weirwood forest rises out of the dense wood.  The thick branches of the ancient trees reach in all directions and create a crimson shelter overhead. Blood red leaves blanket both the sky overhead and the ground beneath, giving the grove an otherworldly appearance. "Aye, a pretty place to be sure," he comments as Sansa retrieves her bundles.

"Come Sandor, there is one tree I especially want to show you."

"I'm starved woman, there had better be food in that sack."

Handing over a loaf of bread, Sansa then takes him by the hand and leads Sandor deeper into the wood on foot while Stranger grazes nearby. Stopping, Sansa beams at him and points to an ancient tree easily twice the size of any other weirwood tree he has ever seen. The forest is silent and beautiful and Sandor marvels at the great tree with its enormous trunk and great red boughs reaching heavenward as if in prayer.

"Isn't it the loveliest tree you have ever seen?" Sansa asks excitedly, her deep blue eyes sparkling with happiness. Only the exquisite woman beside him dims the forest's beauty in his eyes.

"Indeed. I wonder how old it is?" He replies, thinking she alone will forever be the most beautiful sight he will ever see.

Looking around the area in wonder she says softly, "Even though these weirwood trees have no faces carved into them, I feel the presence of the gods here." Turning to him she whispers, "Do you sense it too?"

"Aye, I suppose," he smiles, enjoying her enthusiasm.

"I feel safer here than anywhere I have ever been, except Winterfell."

Gathering her in his arms Sandor pulls her near, reveling in the peaceful closeness between them. "You will always be safe with me Little bird. Remember that."

"I feel safe with you Sandor, I do. I cannot thank you enough for that. You brought justice to my family and to me. You have brought me the first measure of peace I have had in many years." Sitting down on a fallen log, she draws him down beside her. "I wanted to come here with you to answer your questions and in turn I hope you will answer mine."

"You left your cloak behind in my room the night of the battle," she begins, nervously retrieving the dirty white cloak from her bag. Speechless, Sandor stares at her with all his might, wondering how she managed to keep it all this time. "Many times over the years since we parted I have huddled beneath it, drawing strength from your memory." Bashfully she fixes her eyes on him, awaiting his response.

Sandor has never been so deeply touched in his life; his eyes fill with tears at her words. Speechless, he turns away, taking a moment to gather himself. _Sansa kept my cloak just as I kept a piece of her torn dress from the day of the riots._ In his worst moments of suffering he fingered the soft material, deriving strength from her memory; now the Little bird confesses she has done the same.

"Did you now?" Sandor manages, pulling her close to him once more.

"A few days ago, you asked about Petyr…what he did to me and why I tremble." Sighing, Sansa squeezes his hand tightly as if trying to absorb a measure of his fearlessness. "He was responsible for my father's death, I'm sure you know that." Sandor nods gravely, striving to control the surge of anger the mere mention of Baelish provokes in him. "After Joffrey died, he took me to the Eyrie to my aunt. He married her you know, just to gain control over the Vale as Lord Protector while the entire time he plotted to take it for himself. I watched him kill her…'only Cat' he told her and then he threw her out the Moon door to her death. Aunt Lysa blamed me for him."

Sandor knew Sansa's beauty and resemblance to her mother could not have escaped his notice. "He mentioned your mother as he killed your aunt? Hmm, how very odd. Of course Littlefinger was never what you would call normal." Sickening anxiety engulfs Sandor's heart, recalling the first time he saw them together at Winterfell and how all the men remarked on the striking similarity. Littlefinger sat around with them, bragging he took Catelyn's maidenhead before she married Ned, repeating it so often even Tyrion rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Blamed you? She blamed you for what?"

Swallowing hard, Sansa blurts out, "Petyr kissed me...she saw him...and I could not get away from him." Trembling violently, Sansa buries her face in his chest and Sandor grips her tightly against him. After several moments her shaking subsides and Sandor lifts her chin so she will look him in the eyes, willing her to feel his protection, his love and devotion to her. _So Littlefucker kissed the little bird and then killed her aunt._ Sandor's stomach sinks, dreading the answer to his next question. "What about Lord Arryn's boy? Isn't he the heir?"

"Yes, you speak rightly. Petyr understood that too and slowly poisoned him with sweetsleep. My cousin had always been frail and no one realized what Lord Baelish was about. One day the poor boy passed in his sleep."

 _Good gods…I should have gone to the Eyrie, taken her out of that place._ "How did you discover what Littlefinger did?"

Tears fill Sansa's eyes, flooding Sandor with anger once more. "I found the vials under Sweetrobin's bed when I was packing away his belongings after the funeral. Petyr found me throwing them away and immediately admitted it, claiming it was all part of the plan and that he did it all for Catelyn…for me. By then his obsession with my lady mother completely blurred his ability to distinguish me from her. He claimed Sweetrobin's death would allow us to marry and retake Winterfell." Sansa tears flow freely now as she buries herself in Sandor's neck.

Fighting the urge to curse the man, Sandor reminds himself his anger will do her no good. Instead he responds by gently lifting her on his lap and tenderly stroking her hair, whispering words of comfort softly in her ear.

*"One night he came to my room, saying he wanted 'proof' my maidenhead was intact. 'Time to prove your worth,' he said. He was drunk and well, he disrobed. I was so frightened I did not know what to do. I begged the old gods and the new to help me. So I told him to wait for me to freshen up and when I went into the garderobe I retrieved the two remaining full vials of sweetsleep from the wastebasket. While he was, uh, making himself ready, I poured the vials into his wine goblet." Sansa's breathing comes hard and fast, choking out a violent sob at her last words.

Her intense suffering triggers the black rage Sandor felt as the Hound coursing throughout his body. Due to the cold, Sandor packed a flask of wine Nan had given him. Wordlessly he hands her the wineskin, bidding her to drink. After several long draws, Sansa's color returns to her cheeks. "Feel better?"

Sansa nods and hands him the flask. "A bit, yes."

"Wine will do in an emergency but I have something better for you. I brought passion-flower leaves for your trembling and nervous condition, Sansa." He hands over the small pouch and Sansa opens it, inhaling the sweet scent. "When you feel afraid or anxious, put three leaves in a cup to steep. Drink it three times a day and before bedtime."

"Oh thank you so very much. I remember you said the Elder brother taught you herbs and healing. How good you are to me." Tucking the pouch in her skirt pocket, she softly kisses his cheek. "Thank you Sandor, I will drink it gladly."

Resting his chin on her head he says quietly, "You need not say any more if you don't wish, Sansa."

Shaking her head, she squeezes his hands in her own. "No, no-it is time Sandor. Holding this inside has made me ill."

Nodding, he waits patiently for her to continue. "So, I toasted him, hoping he would drink and drink he did. In fact, he drained the cup and not long after he was unconscious."

 _Thank the gods._ Patting her legs, Sandor whispers, "Good on you, Sansa. I'm proud of you. You're a wolf, a true Stark. The gods gave you a way out and you took it."

Sansa wraps her arms around his neck and buries his face in his hair, her words pouring out. "I ran out into the snows of night in a panic. I walked for I don't know how long, praying to the gods for help, praying for death. I thought there was nothing left to live for. Lady Brienne and Podrick found me. By then I had lost my shoes-she cared for me, helped me recover at a nearby inn. It was there I learned of the Hound's death. I wanted to die myself just so I would see my loved ones again. Once I was well enough to travel she brought me north to Jon."

Sandor speaks softly while raising her chin to make her meet his eyes. "You've carried all this inside you this entire time?"

Shaking her head, she admits, "Well, not exactly. I told Lady Brienne and to her credit she did not tell anyone, not even Podrick. She gave only the barest of details to Jon."

When her sobbing subsides, Sandor stands and lifts her to her feet before gathering her close. "You will always be safe. I…I should have never left you." Shame fills his eyes and something more, leading Sansa to wonder what he will do next. She watches him closely while Sandor pauses, seemingly gathering his courage.

 _Remember Elder brother's words. Don't bloody wait for her to ask, just tell her, you damned coward._   "Little bird, I love you," he hesitates, watching her eyes grow wide. "Seven hells, you must have realized it by now." Sansa reaches up to him, stroking his cheek gently. "Sansa, I love you and I will never allow anyone to hurt you again. Believe that."

She laughs joyously, the sound music to his ears. "As I love you, Sandor. I have seen the man within and my love and trust for you is more powerful than any feeling I have ever known. Finding you again so changed and yet so very similar-" pausing, Sansa blushes deeply. "You are the answer to my prayers."

Kissing her soundly, Sandor clings to her, hardly able to believe her words. "My precious Little bird, I love you and I will never allow anyone to take you from me."

Staring deeply into his eyes, she whispers, "Does this mean you wish us wed?"

"Aye, woman, I have wished for it ever since I first saw you."

Wrapping her arms tightly around his neck, she gently kisses his cheek and then snuggles against his chest, sighing contentedly.

 _Just say it you besotted fool._ "I know it is soon but I would-I would ask you to become my wife, Sansa."

Holding his face in her hands, Sansa kisses him slowly and deeply and such an intimate, tender expression of love Sandor has never before experienced in his life. "Yes, I would love to be your wife, Sandor. I do not wish to ever be parted from you again."

Years of praying, hoping and yearning all come crashing over him at her words. Unable to hold back any longer, Sandor crushes her against him, burying his face in her hair while his own tears shower her neck and shoulder. Determined to assure him of her love, Sansa tenderly caresses him, her kisses quickly becoming passionate. Sandor's kisses in return are deep, full of hunger and wanting and he is delighted to discover Sansa shares his desire. Wrapping one leg around his for balance, she draws him closer as he runs his hands along her waist, settling on her hips.

The feeling of their bodies pressed tightly together elicits a long groan from Sandor. Unable to resist, he grinds his hips against hers before abruptly breaking away from her. Ever so slowly he allows her body to slide against his own as he lowers her to her feet. Sansa traces every feature of his body with her own: the feeling of his muscular carved chest, the chiseled defined ridges of his stomach, the hardness of his manhood leaves her gasping, craving more of him.

Chuckling low, Sandor gently moves away from her. "Any more of this, woman, and I may take you right here on the ground, leaves and all."

Blushing, she replies, "If you keep kissing me in such a way I might forget myself and let you."

Barking out a laugh, Sandor shakes his head. "Bloody hells, look what being around me has done to you!" Turning serious, Sandor takes her hands in his. "Sansa, you know better than anyone I don't have much to offer. Nevertheless I wish to speak to your brother as soon as may be."

Nodding, Sansa eyes fill with happy tears. "Yes love, the sooner the better."

Icy winds swirl around them, bringing snow flurries that dust the landscape with fresh powder and send a shower of red leaves over the couple. "Sandor, look! The snow in the weirwood grove, the leaves falling-it is a sign from my father!" She giggles excitedly, catching the snowflakes on her tongue.

"That it may well be, love, but I'm sure he doesn't mean for you to stand out here and catch a chill. Let's head back before we're both soaked through." Taking off his cloak, he bundles her close to him and then lifts her on Stranger's back.

Snuggling down securely in his arms, Sansa sighs happily as they ride back to the village, the sound causing an unfamiliar lightness to take hold of Sandor as the cabin comes into view. As he silently thanks the gods for Sansa's love, he realizes now this is the reason the gods spared his life; it was for this, for her love that he is alive and he knows he will do anything necessary to make her happy for the rest of his life.


	8. A Refused Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are beautiful, Little bird. No bloody scars change that. Ugly is the bloody bastard who called for your beating. Ugly is that cowardly shit Meryn. If he wasn't already dead I'd skin him alive for this," Sandor growls. Fascinated by the sight of her beautiful skin laid bare to him, Sandor leans close and gently strokes her back.

Jon scrapes the old whetstone against Longclaw's blade. Ghost lies contentedly at his feet, gnawing on a leftover venison leg. Ned gave him his first sword and whetstone for his thirteenth nameday and he still uses the same fluid motion his father taught him so long ago. Sharpening his sword brings a measure of comfort and conjures memories of his father sitting under the weirwoods of Winterfell.

Mulling over his upcoming conversation with Stannis, he can still see the mask of fear returning to Sansa's face as he presented Lord Celtigar's offer. Cursing himself, he roughly courses the edge with the stone and soon hears the gate being raised. At the sound of the soldiers entering the castle gate, the huge direwolf raises to himself to his full height and growls. Jon strides over to greet Stannis and Lord Celtigar in the courtyard of Castle Black. "My lords, I hope this day finds you both well."

Glancing around, Stannis frowns. "Where is Lord Eddard's daughter? We understood she was to meet us as well."

Ghost sniffs the lords thoroughly before growling low and returning to his master, his attentions unsettling both of the men. "Lady Sansa is very devoted to both the old gods and the new. At present I expect she is worshipping in the godswood, having spent the last few days deep in prayer. Lord Stannis, being a worshipper of R'hllor and keeping counsel with a most dedicated priestess, I understand that you share her zeal for religion."

Gritting his teeth, Stannis replies, "Do you mock me, Lord Commander Snow? I do not consider this matter a jape at all."

Shaking his head, Jon answers, "Not at all, my lord. I was merely commenting that you and my sister share a deep devotion to the gods in hopes of providing a sufficient explanation for her absence at present."

While Stannis thinks this over, Lord Celtigar steps forward and addresses Jon. "I deduce by your sister's absence that I have received my answer then, Lord Commander Snow."

"Indeed. I approached her with your proposal and unbeknownst to me it seems another man has already claimed her affections. I explained you generous offer, Lord Stannis, but as you may well imagine after her experiences with the Lannisters and Lord Baelish, she is no longer interested in arranged marriages as a means of securing her ancestral home. Forgive me if we have wasted your time."

"Who, pray tell, is this 'other man' that he is more worthy than Lord Celtigar?" Stannis asks, scrutinizing Jon closely.

"I am not at liberty to say. The man of which I speak has done my sister a great service and treated her with uncommon devotion."

Visibly alarmed, Stannis quickly dismounts and strides toward Jon, only to be blocked by Ghost who snarls low at his advance. "Do not tell me she is to wed Sandor Clegane! Your father would never approve such a match. This cannot be! Tell me truly, is Sandor Clegane the man?"

Raising his hand, Jon interrupts. "I already informed both of you men that I am in no position to arrange any marriage alliance for my true-born sister. It is her choice and I will not discuss it any further. During my visit with him, Sandor Clegane expressed no interest in the war or even in Winterfell itself for that matter."

Frowning, Lord Celtigar asks, "This man Sandor Clegane-does he have terrible scarring on his face?"

Jon nods. "Yes, as a matter of fact he does. What of it?"

"Several of the soldiers serving under my command ran into him last night in one of the cabins. He was quite aggressive and claimed the men were upsetting his woman. Lord Commander Snow, I did not think you would allow your sister to associate on such private terms with any man. Frankly it may lead to questions about her honor. How is it he is under the impression she is 'his woman'?"

"You would do well to no longer speak of my sister _at all_. Her honor is not up for question by you or any man. Do I make myself clear?" Jon replies, his voice thick with anger."My sister's safety is my main concern and a well-founded one, at that. Apparently I must be especially careful with so-called men of honor, I can see that already." Glancing at Stannis, Jon asks, "Your men ran into Clegane and my sister in one of the cabins, you say? On whose authority did they act?"  Stepping closer to the young lord, Jon squints at him warily. "What were they doing among the private homes? Your men only had permission to visit the center of White Tree, not harass the clan folk in their cabins. Answer me."

Stannis glares at Lord Adragon. "You, take four of my guardsman and make sure none of my soldiers are lost. Should you come across Clegane, give him a wide berth. Believe me, he is not the man with which you want to cross swords. I have seen him best better and faster men, good men, and kill them with a smile on his face. I cannot spare any one of you. Lord Commander Snow, I apologize for the men's behavior. It has been awhile since they have been among civilized people but that is no excuse for this travesty. I will see to their punishment."

Once Lord Adragon and the soldiers are out of view, Stannis leans in. "I _want_ Clegane, Lord Commander Snow. I will not be refused in this matter. That man personally provided protection for my nephew. Need I remind you he participated in the death of your father? Are you aware he assisted Joffrey with preparations for the Battle of the Blackwater? I saw him cut through many a good man as though they were sheep brought to the slaughter! Lord Commander Snow, I mean to see him pay for it. He is not to be trusted any more than Gregor was and make no mistake."

"Now that Lord Celtigar has departed, please join me in my solar, Lord Stannis. I have an offering that I believe will help us reach a mutually satisfying agreement to our situation," Jon replies, motioning for the soldiers to follow him into the castle. Stannis watches Jon curiously and then allows him to lead him inside.

* * *

"Get those wet clothes off, woman," Sandor calls out while changing into dry breeches, trying not to concentrate on the fact that she is undressing within mere feet of him. Listening to Sansa nervously fumbling behind the changing screen, he laughs as he stirs up the embers in the great fireplace. "Once you're warm, you can change into the dry frock I brought you. Come on out before you catch cold," he motions to her, sitting on the hearth and patting the space in front of him.

Slowly she emerges from behind the screen wearing only her shift and a deep blush spreading from her cheeks clear down her neck. "About bloody time," he chuckles as he removes his wet tunic all the while trying not to gape at her beautiful figure. "Come here, you'll warm up faster if we share body heat. Don't be shy, I'm no maiden," he chuckles  and, despite her embarrassment, Sansa joins him in laughing heartily at very idea.

Hesitating, Sansa's gaze sweeps over his bare chest slowly, her cheeks burning an even deeper shade of red. His chest and stomach are muscular and defined as though chiseled out of marble, reminding her of the statues in the Red Keep. Shyly her eyes follow the path of thick black hair from his chest down his stomach and disappearing below the waistband of his breeches. Moving closer, she spots faint white scars crisscrossing his back and chest, reminding her of her own scars from Meryn and Boros's beatings.

"What is it, Little bird? Can't bear to look at a man's naked chest? Or is it just mine?" He teases, wrapping her close in his arms and then bundling the furs around them. Basking in the warmth of the crackling fire, Sandor is amazed to find her skin is even softer than he imagined. The Little bird's hair smells of lavender and Sandor tentatively pulls her even closer while deeply inhaling her sweet scent.

"Forgive me Sandor, I know it is very unladylike of me to-to stare at you so. It's just-" Sansa's voice trails off as she timidly runs her fingers along the ridges of his stomach and then lower over the path of a long white scar. Her touch and boldness both surprise and powerfully arouse the man. All coherent thought is quickly obscured by the feel of her tenderly touching his bare skin. Lifting her face, he roughly asks, "It's just…what?"

"It's just that I was thinking we both wear scars on our bodies, that's all," she whispers, delicately continuing her exploration. "I'm ashamed for you to see mine. Forgive me."

Grunting he shrugs, apparently unperturbed by her blunt observation. _She sees my scars as a sign of bravery, as having coming from battle whereas hers are the result of abuse and the Little bird feels they are a source of shame._ "Don't apologize for telling me the truth, Little bird. You forget I was there when you got them. I'm the one that should feel ashamed. I stood there in that bloody white cloak and let them beat you."

Smiling sadly, she strokes his cheek. "No, Sandor, do not say such. You were the only one who called for an end to it and gave me your cloak besides. I still have it, too." Her eyes are full of longing and Sandor finds himself lost in her soft gaze.

"Bloody hells, Sansa. You need to stop collecting my cloaks." Removing the furs, Sandor drapes Sansa's thick hair over her shoulder. "Let me see your scars, Little bird-the gods know you've seen mine plenty enough."

Tears of humiliation sting her eyes but she assents, lowering the straps of her shift until long raised red stripes come into view, a stark contrast to the creamy white expanse of skin on her back. "They are ugly, I know. I have them on the backs of my thighs too-"

Sandor interrupts her. "You are beautiful, Little bird. No bloody scars change that. Ugly is the bloody bastard who called for your beating. Ugly is that cowardly shit Meryn. If he wasn't already dead I'd skin him alive for this," Sandor growls. Fascinated by the sight of her beautiful skin laid bare to him, Sandor leans close and gently strokes her back. For Sansa, the delicious feeling of his calloused fingers faintly tracing the length of her scars sends shivers of pleasure throughout her body. "Wear them proud. It shows you survived. You lived to see another day and that is all that matters."

"Yes, we both lived to see this day, thank the gods. Now we will wed." Snuggling against his chest, Sansa makes no move to cover herself, reveling in the feel of his strong arms against her bare skin, the hair on his chest and stomach tickling her back. "Sandor I must say, you do look rather nice without your shirt. You're so very big and strong," she giggles, hiding her face from him.

"Aye, you think so, do you? You look better without clothes too, my blushing little bird," he whispers, nibbling on her earlobe while gently caressing her stomach with his large hands.Sandor moves the furs away from her once more and tenderly places his mouth against each scar, softly kissing the discolorations trailing down her back. "I've longed to do this since the day you were beaten."

Gasping, Sansa's head swims with the pleasurable feel of Sandor's warm lips against her bare back, his beard brushing enticingly against her skin with each kiss. "I…I wish you had. Oh my that feels good," He is so very tender with her and Sansa soon relaxes under his touch, her scars and the memories accompanying them vanishing under the feel of his mouth on her body.

"So beautiful," he whispers hoarsely, his hot breath sending shivers through her. "Tomorrow I will go to your brother. As much as I want you Sansa, I would make you my wife first."

Sansa tries to speak but cannot, the feelings of his lips and tongue trailing down her back removing her train of thought. "Oh yes, do speak to him," she manages before moaning low, her obvious pleasure gratifying Sandor immensely.

"Such an eager Little bird," he teases, gently moving her straps down her shoulders. Suddenly emboldened, Sansa surprises him by wriggling out of her shift, leaving on only her bottom smallclothes. "Careful girl or I'll be inclined to think you'd rather not wait," he rasps out, his voice thick with need as he gently runs his hands over her bare breasts, softly nipping at her neck and collarbone.

"Sandor please I...I do not wish to wait," she gasps out. "I wish for us to become one this night."

"Always so courteous," he chuckles low. "Are you certain Sansa? Look at me now," he says suddenly turning serious, turning her chin up to him. Gazing into her lovely eyes now glazed with desire, Sandor struggles to control himself, his voice rasping out his next words. "I would not have us joined in such a way without being wed." Love has never been a part of his involvement with women, his experiences limited to drunken, animalistic encounters that ended as quickly as they began. An intense shame accompanies his recollection of most of them, the unpleasant emotion Sandor expertly learned to drown with Dornish red along with the rest of the miserable happenings he wished forgotten.

Over the years, making love to his beautiful little bird has been a regular feature of his dreams. Since his time on the Quiet Isle, Sandor's singular wish is that their joining take place with love, tenderness and most importantly, a commitment before the gods. Sandor knows his past experiences have left him woefully ill-equipped to please such a delicate maiden but that does not prevent him from wanting to share a loving experience with her.

He longs to make her his wife, to leisurely explore Sansa and learn what it feels like to be wanted and desired by her. More than anything, he desires her to find her own pleasure as well and for their lovemaking to be as good as it can be for her. Sandor is determined their encounters will not bear the remotest similarity to his past couplings.

Sansa kneels in front of him, holding his face in her hands while she stares deep into his eyes and nearly taking his breath away with her next words. "I am no longer a child, Sandor. You must trust my words when I tell you that I love you. I love you, Sandor and I want you, too. I am yours and ready to be thus with you." Wrapping her legs around his waist, she settles herself on his lap and then delicately begins kissing his neck, nuzzling her face in his beard.

"Sansa," he whispers as she draws his head down to her breast.

"Sandor, please my love, I want you," she whispers in his ear, gripping his head.

Unable to resist, he tenderly begins tasting her beautiful curves and exploring her lovely body with his hands. When Sansa reaches down and begins unlacing him, he is jolted out of his reverie and remembering his promise, he stills her hands. Burying his face between her breasts and clinging to her, Sandor struggles to maintain control. "I promised your brother I would not compromise you honor. I mean to keep my word," he grunts out, his breath coming fast, his desire heavy upon him.

Stunned, Sansa smiles shyly at her future husband, proud he is a man of his word even in such matters as this. "As you wish, ser. That is most gallant of you, though my honor was never in danger of compromise, I assure you. How can there be dishonor in loving you in body as well as heart?" She tries to move away but he maintains a tight grip on her, clinging to her with all his might.

"Please, just be still a moment. Let me hold you, Sansa." Once his breathing returns to normal, he gently releases her. "Bugger your gallantry, little bird," he laughs low. "What sort of wedding do you want? I can't promise any bloody jousting dwarves."

Surprised by his reference, she bursts out in laughter. "Don't bother finding dwarves for our wedding, Sandor, please I beg you," she gasps, happy tears filling her eyes. "I wish us wed under the Heart tree with Jon and a few of our friends as soon as you speak to my brother. By tomorrow afternoon I wish to be Sansa Clegane and for you to finish what you have started tonight."

Grinning wickedly, he moves closer still, wrapping his arms around her waist while carefully stroking her stomach. "As you wish, my lady. Now sit back down here with me woman, it's bloody cold in here."

Sansa giggles, "I cannot promise I will be able to resist you," she purrs, her words sending Sandor's blood to boiling once more. Just as they settle themselves down once more, a loud pounding on the cabin door interrupts the couple's wedding plans.


	9. A Matter of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor looks the young lord over, his piercing gaze unnerving the demanding man. "Aye, I am Sandor Clegane. Do I look like I give a piss what you take umbrage with, little lord? You'll not speak to my lady unless she wishes it, understand?"

Podrick looks anxiously between Jon and Lord Celtigar, a sudden realization seizing him. Following the men out of Jon's solar, the young ranger boldly steps in front of the group, bringing the men to an abrupt halt.

"Out of my way boy," the lord snaps, moving around Pod and continuing on his way.

"My lord, I am certain the Lord Commander would wish me to assist you."

Understanding Pod's alarm, Jon follows them and steps before the group of soldiers.

"You men, take Podrick and our maester Samwell with you. It's easy enough to get lost after dark and there are all sorts of unpleasant things roaming these woods. I want a full account of all dealings, Rangers, as you as you finish."

Sighing, the angry young lord assents, jerking his chin for them to follow. Walking a respectable distance behind the soldiers, Pod nonchalantly whispers to Sam.

"I believe he's determined Lady Sansa will see him. I fear for her safety with these men. Regardless of what we think of him, we must help Clegane any way we can, for her sake."

"You think _we_ should help Sandor Clegane? Hah! I'd like to see the day that man needs help from _us!_ These Baratheon soldiers will need an undertaker after he's through with them."

Snickering, Pod nods in agreement. "Have you seen him in the practice yard with the Free folk men of a morning?"

Sam whistles low. "And that big black horse of his is every bit as mean as he is, too."

Pod gravely agrees. "Most of the rangers don't have the stomach to face him, either. I used to watch him spar in King's Landing and he routinely beat every man to a pulp except his brother. They didn't call him the Hound for nothing."

Lord Celtigar overhears the conversation and quickly turns to face the two men.

"What do you two men know of this Sandor Clegane? You there, speak up."

Pod glances sideways at Sam. "My lord, I am sure I don't know how this pertains to the Lord Commander's orders."

"You Northmen certainly stick together, damn you. I resent such a lowborn man from an upstart house as Clegane treating the lady meant to be my wife as his personal property."

The two rangers exchange glances before Podrick hesitantly replies.

"Neither Sandor Clegane nor I are Northmen, my lord. We are both Westermen from minor houses and two more different men you could hardly find. To answer your question, Clegane is Lady Sansa's sworn shield.

I have known the man most of my life and I personally saw him fight at the battle of the Blackwater. I assure you that no man can withstand him, either here or in King's Landing. The only man I ever saw that was his equal in battle is his deceased brother. If you don't mind me saying so, my lord, it would be wise to deal with him accordingly."

"Bah! I have yet to fear any man and I am not about to start now," Lord Celtigar begins haughtily, only to be interrupted by Sam snorting derisively.

"Forgive me, my lord but clearly you haven't met many men beyond the highborns you keep company with. You'll find there's a different breed of men up here."

Podrick wonders at Lord Celtigar's intelligence, if he unable or unwilling to assess the danger in other men. If not for Lord Stannis, he would be dead in no time, of that he is certain.

A Baratheon soldier steps forward, clearly angered. "Do you dare insult my lord?"

Ignoring the soldier, Pod retorts, "Please understand, we mean no disrespect. However, we are not green boys, my lord. Both Sam and I are battle tested. Knowing the man as we do, I advise you tread lightly. Believe me when I say Sandor Clegane is not like other men."

Scoffing, Lord Celtigar asks, "Won't he die if you strike him with a sword just like any other man?"

Samwell shrugs, "A few have done that very thing and he did not die. He has come here a changed man. Make no mistake, the Hound may be buried within the man but you best believe he'll not hesitate to kill if Lady Sansa is threatened."

Lord Celtigar turns and confronts the men, angrily gripping his fists.

"I have no intention of threatening her! And I care not to hear any more of what either of you _Rangers_ think about this situation. As a lord from one of the most honorable houses in Westeros, I am owed an explanation from Lady Sansa. It is most insulting that after everything I was willing to overlook on her account I deserve at least to hear her reasons for refusal in person. After all she was wed to Lord Tyrion and then suspected of Joffrey's murder, not to mention the unusual arrangement in which she lived with Lord Baelish! She is most fortunate to have such an honorable proposal and gods be damned I will not be thrown over in this way."

Sighing, Samwell shakes his head. "If you will excuse me my lord, I have just recalled a pressing matter I need to attend. I trust you can handle it from here," he comments, raising his eyebrow at Pod.

"Very well then, go. We have no use for you anyway, Maester Tarly," Lord Celtigar barks and then moves toward the cabins.

"Which way to Clegane?" he asks a passing Free folk woman, who shakes her head and continues on her way.

The lord persists, only to be blocked by her husband's ax, preventing him from bothering her further.

"They will not cooperate with you, my lord. Clegane and Lady Sansa are of the Free folk now." Pod offers. "If you insist on doing this, follow me."

* * *

"Who in the Seven bloody hells is it?" Sandor loudly growls as he hurriedly fastens Sansa's dress.

"I wish to speak to Lady Sansa on a pressing matter."

Frowning, Sansa looks over her shoulder as Sandor fumbles with the lacings. "I believe it is Samwell Tarly, my love. Let us see what he wants."

Pulling his tunic and leather studded jerkin over his head, Sandor clutches his greatsword and heads for the door.

Sansa draws his head down and kisses him softly before he opens it.

"It's the maester all right. Is everything all right at Castle Black?"

"Yes, everything is fine. However, there is a matter of the lord who made Lady Sansa's offer of marriage-may I speak to you a moment?" Sam asks nervously.

"Come in Sam; what is it?" Sansa asks anxiously as Sandor steps aside to allow Sam's admittance.

"Lord Celtigar is on his way here as we speak. Pod and I have tried our best to discourage him but still he insists on speaking with you, my lady. He feels he was 'thrown over', to use his words. Since he's a lord, he feels he is owed an explanation."

"Does he now? Well, he's going to get more than he bargained for if he comes around here insisting anything, the buggering bastard." Sandor snarls low, allaying his anger by sharpening his sword.

"Thank you, Sam, for coming here to warn us. Perhaps you had better go back with Pod lest Jon think you neglected following his orders," Sansa says, opening the door.

"Alright my lady, that is most kind. I'll be back shortly."

Sandor stands at the door watching Sam disappear into the inky blackness of night.

"I knew that little lord wouldn't let you go without a fight. The bloody pride of these arrogant, so-called honorable bastards is their downfall."

Sansa moves over to where Sandor is seated and holds his face in her hands, gently running her fingers through his beard.

"Sandor, it would not matter if Stannis himself wanted to marry me. You are the only man I will ever love, the only one I wish to join myself to in every way," she whispers, kissing him softly.

"Sansa," he raps low. "We're to be wed. You're mine and gods forgive me, I'd fight the Warrior himself before I'll let anyone take you from me."

Smiling into his kiss, she soothingly runs her hands over his back. "No one will take me from you and you best believe no one will take you from me, either."

Once again the couple is interrupted by a loud banging on the door.

Gritting his teeth, Sandor straps on his shortsword before brandishing his greatsword in his right hand.

Opening the door, his eyes glitter with the familiar anger of the Hound as he glares at the men.

"Who the fuck are you and what in Seven hells are you doing banging on my door after dark?"

"You must be Sandor Clegane, ser," Lord Celtigar begins, assessing the fearsome man before him.

Sandor ducks his head beneath the doorframe and steps out onto the porch, sword at the ready.

"Fuck your sers. I'm no bloody knight, never was."

Lord Celtigar frowns at Sandor's harsh manner and coarse language.

"You must be Sandor Clegane. I take umbrage at your disrespectful manner. I am Lord Adragon Celtigar of House Celtigar of Claw Island and I intend to speak with Lady Sansa Stark."

Sandor looks the young lord over, his piercing gaze unnerving the demanding man.

"Aye, I am Sandor Clegane. Do I look like I give a piss what you take umbrage with, little lord? You'll not speak to my lady unless she wishes it, understand?"

Glancing over at the two rangers, Sandor gives them a wicked grin. "Payne, Tarly: what brings you men here? Everything all right at Castle Black?"

Sam nods, "Clegane, we've accompanied these men throughout the village in search of Baratheon soldiers harassing the local folk. The Lord Commander did not expect or intend for these men to come here and speak to his sister."

"That so? None were here today, although there were some soldiers that came pounding on the door last night looking to dishonor Sansa. Might be it was some of these men right here."

Taking his time looking over each of the soldiers, Sandor barks out his harsh laugh, sounding like his snarling namesake more than ever.

"So the Lord Commander sent you two along to make sure there wasn't a slaughter, is that it?"

Turning to Lord Celtigar, Sandor leans in close, his voice rasping like steel scraping against stone.

"State your business and be gone. I won't say it again."

Lord Celtigar squares his shoulders, resting his hand of the hilt of his sword.

"Little lord, if you lay a hand on that weapon of yours around me, you best be ready to use it," Sandor growls, raising his sword to the man's throat. "Take that hand away or lose your head."

One of the Baratheon soldiers step forward, sword drawn.

"You would dare threaten my lord in our presence ser?"

With one swift move Sandor slices through the man's pauldrons, ripping into the flesh of his sword arm.

"Brave boy," Sandor spits out, scowling defiantly at the rest of the soldiers. "Consider that a warning. Anyone else feel like testing me?"

Carefully, Lord Celtigar slowly inches his hand away from his sword as Sam begins helping the wounded soldier.

"I've not come here for swordplay. As I have already declared I wish to speak to Lady Sansa. I made her an honorable offer of marriage and was refused. Lord Commander Snow left me with no other explanation and I believe I am owed that much at least."

"Bugger that. Her brother gave you her answer and that's the end of it."

Pod steps forward. "Lord Celtigar, I'm certain it is an oversight but the Lord Commander stated to you and Lord Stannis that his sister's affections lie elsewhere."

The cabin door creaks open and Sansa steps out onto the porch, placing her hand gently on Sandor's arm.

"Lord Celtigar," she begins icily. "My sworn shield has made it clear your presence here is most unwelcome. My brother gave you my answer. If you insist on hearing it from my own mouth, I will oblige you."

"My dear Lady Sansa, I-" he begins and then abruptly stops, taken aback by the beautiful woman whom Stannis meant to be his betrothed.

Holding up her hand, Sansa rebuffs the man's attempts at explanation.

"To come here in such a manner is beneath the dignity of your house. I will reiterate my brother's words: I must refuse your offer of marriage. I am deeply in love with Sandor Clegane and will not be dissuaded."

Looking up and Sandor she gives him a small smile and squeezes his arm.

"He has asked me to marry him and I have accepted. We have yet to approach my brother with our engagement but since you interfered in our business I am compelled to tell you first."

Pod and Sam exchange grins as they watch Sansa deftly handle the arrogant lord.

"Forgive me, my lady but this is a matter of honor. You are from the first families of Westeros and it is unthinkable for your honor to be sullied by this man! You were not meant to be with-with…" the young lord sputters angrily, gesturing to Sandor.

"My _honor_?" Sansa laughs, the sound empty and humorless. "This from _you,_ whose family bent the knee to Joffrey and yet now you serve Lord Stannis, the man who once waged war against your deceased king?"

Stepping closer, Sansa glares at the man. "And you would be arrogant enough to say you know what is best for me, would you? _You_ , who have never met me until this very moment," she hisses, the wolf in her taking the men by surprise. "You _men!_ Lord Stannis, Petyr Baelish, Joffrey-you are all alike! By virtue of your gender, you feel well within your rights demanding the ladies of your respective houses submit to any marriage you desire, so long as it cements your alliances."

Sansa turns to Sandor and raises his hand to her lips, kissing him tenderly.

Stunned, Sandor stares at her. Slowly his lips twitching into a grin, proud his Little bird so openly shows her affection for him in front of the men.

"Is marrying for love only the providence of lowborn women? If so, then I would rather be thus. I love Sandor with all my heart and there is nothing I wish more than to be his wife. I will discuss this no further with any man besides my brother and my betrothed, so be gone, all of you."

Turning to Pod and Sam, Sansa smiles and her tone and demeanor suddenly changes at the sight of her brother's men.

"Not you, my friends. Please forgive me. Won't the two of you come inside for a bit? I wish for you to toast our engagement!"

With that Sansa gestures to the men with a smile and disappears inside the cabin with Sam and Pod following on her heels.

"You heard my lady. I'll give you one last chance to get the fuck off my property."

Quietly the soldiers watch Lord Celtigar, whose demeanor shows an unwillingness to back down.

" _Your_ lady? You have obviously bewitched her. What other explanation is there that a woman such as Lady Sansa could forget herself so easily? She owes it to her family and the north to control herself, not choose a husband out of some misplaced affection. Regardless of her feelings, it is altogether presumptuous to speak for her considering you have not discussed your engagement with her brother."

Tilting his head, Sandor glowers at the man, rage pulsing through his body.

"Bugger that and bugger you, too. She is mine and no one will take her from me, understand? Any man dares try will die a slow painful death, starting with you. Go ahead, you buggering bastard, I dare you."

"You men, seize Lady Stark!" Lord Celtigar shouts, drawing his sword.

Roaring in fury, Sandor cuts through the men with frightening speed. Pod and Sam soon join him in the fight but by then most of the remaining Baratheon soldiers lay bloodied and strewn about the porch and yard.

Blood pours from a shallow gash on his side but Sandor is not through yet. Easily disarming Lord Celtigar with a crushing blow, he renders the lord's sword arm unusably mangled.

A loud crash echoes from the rear of the cabin and Sansa steps outside in time to see Stranger snorting and trumpeting as he bolts into the yard, eager to join his master in battle.

Her eyes drift from the horse to his owner and then to the blood seeping from the wound on his side, knowing all too well the soldiers are ill equipped to confront the awakened fury of the Hound.

"Sandor. are you alright?"

Panting, Sandor nods at her. "Stay where you are Sansa. Pod, Sam, keep her safe while I finish this."

Moving toward the arrogant lord in a blind fury, Sandor raises his leg and kicks the man in the ribs.

"Thought you'd take her that easily, did you? Look at my face. LOOK at me!" Sandor snarls, kicking Lord Celtigar's ornate sword within his reach. "I've been to the Seven hells boy. The gods know I'd kill the Stranger himself to keep my lady safe. I dare you, go ahead and just try me. Show me you at least have the balls to try and take her yourself instead of ordering Stannis' lackeys to do your dirty work."

As Sandor inches his way toward the lord, Jon and Stannis ride up to see Lord Celtigar scrambling in the muddied snow for his weapon.

"Stop! I'll handle this from here, Clegane. Did you not hear me when I said you will accept my sister's decision?"

Jon quickly dismounts with his sword drawn.

"Lord Stannis, have your men take Lord Celtigar out of my sister's sight."

"This is intolerable from a man in your position Lord Celtigar. We will handle him on the morrow," Stannis assents gravely before gesturing for his guard to take Lord Celtigar into custody.

"My dear Lady Sansa, I regret we meet under such unpleasant circumstances. You must believe I would never sanction such behavior against Lord Eddard Stark's daughter. Arranging marriages has become more perilous than battles, it would seem."

Bowing, Sansa cautiously replies, "My Lord, it is an honor to meet you at long last. Forgive me; I did not intend to cause you any trouble."

"It makes no matter now. Your brother has brought me information that is well worth it, my lady."

Jon looks over at Sansa, her face pale in the moonlight. "Sister, are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

"No, Jon I am fine but Sandor...he's injured, please help him," Sansa shakily responds, rushing to her beloved's side, her eyes filling with tears at the sight of his blood staining his clothing.

Jon quickly moves to help her seat him, amazed to see her allow her true emotions break free after guardedly offering the barest of demonstrations until now.

"Shh, Little bird, calm yourself. I'm alright. I've had worse wounds from those damn bedbugs in King's Landing," Sandor grunts roughly, his keen gray eyes softening as he brushes a stray strand of hair from her face.

Deftly Sansa lifts both jerkin and undershirt to inspect the wound carefully. Without any hint of embarrassment, she gently strokes Sandor's side to comfort him.

Taken aback, Jon watches the couple carefully and notes that for the moment they seem to have forgetten they are not alone.

Sam watches over Sansa's ministrations, quietly offering suggestions until Jon says low, "Sansa, please, let Sam do his job. He'll take good care of him. Come over here with me now."

Nodding absently she steps away, her eyes following Sandor as the men take him inside.

"I want the best care for him, understand?" Jon declares. "Once Clegane is treated, then we shall all sit down and have a talk."


	10. Jon's Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's something we should discuss, Lord Commander. Today I asked your sister to be my wife and she has agreed. As her brother I would ask for your blessing." Grinning, Jon looks at Sansa, whose cheeks are ablaze, blushing clear down to her chest. "Do you wish to wed Sandor Clegane, sister? I must hear it from your own mouth, you know."

"Podrick, lend me a hand with this," Sam mutters as he gingerly sews Sandor's wound, ever wary of the fierce Hound as his needle moves swiftly through the stitching. Distractedly, Sansa looks about a moment and then pulls up several chairs and bids the men to sit. Jon and Lord Stannis wait for her to be seated first, surprising both men when she takes her place on the bed next to Sandor.

"Lord Stannis, how good of you to come and meet with us. Pray, forgive me for not being able to offer a more appropriate welcome. This is a most unexpected turn of events."

"It is a pleasure to meet Lord Eddard's eldest daughter under any circumstances." Jon glances between Sansa and Sandor and then Stannis, watching the battle hardened man sizing up the couple intently. Eyes narrowing, Stannis shifts as he addresses the Hound. "Sandor Clegane, I hoped to never see you again after Blackwater. We heard you were buried in the Saltpans some years back. What brings a man like you north of the Wall?"

Grunting, Sandor shakes his head before sneaking a glance at Sansa. "Thought I'd live away from the fighting, the noise and stench of city life, see how it suits."

Sansa folds her hands and clears her throat, patiently waiting for the men to begin. "My lords, please, we are most eager to hear your words."

 _Ever the proper lady, even when telling grown men to get to the point,_ Sandor chuckles, wincing as Sam continues his sewing.

Jon gestures toward Stannis with a frown. "Through a series of raven messages Arnolf Karstark counseled Lord Stannis to join forces with him to mount an attack against the Dreadfort which is the current seat of the new Warden of the North, Lord Roose Bolton."

Gasping, Sansa visibly pales, turning to see Sandor's reaction. "Roose Bolten is now the Warden of the North?" She has heard it whispered that he still practices the "first night" tradition in addition to other unspeakable cruelties. It is unthinkable to her that such a man would ever hold the same title as her beloved father.

"Never mind him, Little bird. I'll cut that fucking bastard in half if he so much as shows his face here."

Stannis nods, "My lady, we do not wish to upset you with the details; however, some discussion is necessary so you will understand the plan we have formed."

Swallowing hard, Sansa pulls her mouth into a tight smile, "Of course my lord. Please, do continue."

Nodding sharply Stannis sighs. "I agreed to his proposal and planned my offensive to begin when Ramsay Bolton marched south to Moat Cailin."

Sansa watches Sandor raise his eyebrow and cast a shrewd look at Jon. "Unknown to Lord Stannis, Arnolf Karstark was working for House Bolton behind his back and trying to lure him into a trap. I, however, heard of the plan and without revealing the details invited Lord Stannis to Castle Black several months ago in hopes of persuading him not to go ahead with this course, as the Dreadfort is almost impenetrable even with the small garrison left defending it."

"Oh my! Lord Stannis, that is just horrible. The Boltons cannot be trusted." Sansa remarks, raising her hand to her throat as she remembers how her mother and others described the family.

"Lord Commander Snow advised me to go through the mountains and win the support of the clans first. Though he did not share his reasoning I approved and instead went west to take Deepwood Motte from the Ironborn first."

"Wise choice, those mountain clans are loyal to Eddard Stark even in death. They would take pride in having a king." Sandor remarks knowingly.

Jon nods soundly before replying, "Indeed."

"I won over several of their chiefs and who added an additional three thousand men in my army. We were able to retake Deepwood Motte and returned it to House Glover, a gesture that gained us the support and favor of the north."

"Yes I had heard of your conquests, my lord. Only the barest of details, really. I would not presume to understand your reasoning on such tactics," Sansa smiles politely.

Jon grins at Sandor, both men knowing full well Sansa is merely pretending, playing to the man's preconceived ideas of a well-behaved highborn woman. _If she plays her role well, she may win Stannis' favor and hopefully put an end to his plans of marrying her off to one of his lords,_ Sandor thinks, proud of the shrewd woman his Little bird has become.

Stannis looks somewhat pleased at her words. "Until then I received many rejections from my demands of fealty from the northern lords, although gaining the support of a portion of House Umber certainly helped my cause, as you may well imagine."

Sansa nods thoughtfully, though she is clearly puzzled to hear Stannis Baratheon readily offering such information. "My lord, your perseverance and determination are most admirable. If you will forgive my bluntness Lord Stannis, I can only dedeuce the purpose of sharing such details with me must also somehow involve the marriage alliance you proposed. May I ask what you see my part as being in assisting you?"

"Lady Sansa, this is the reason I intended to give Winterfell back to the Starks. My army marched on Winterfell and eventually joined up with the forces of Arnolf Karstark. Upon arriving I learned Asha and Theon Greyjoy had been executed. I have since been told it was Sandor Clegane who did the duty himself as well as eliminating that traitor Walder Frey. I had no proof, however,  as there were no bodies to be found but your brother has since informed me Clegane had brought them to him here. With the eldest true-born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark installed in Winterfell, the support of the mountain clans and northern lords would be united in loyalty to your house and thus, by extension, to me."

"I see," Sansa sighs, trembling slightly at his words and the heavy implications her decision will mean for the stubborn lord. _Undoubtedly Stannis will become king one day, which makes my position even more precarious with him._ "You must think me an ungrateful and selfish girl, my lord, for rejecting your chosen suitor."

Sighing, Stannis looks at Jon. "Your brother has given me information in exchange for allowing your refusal to go unchallenged, Lady Sansa. I have no desire to burden you with the particulars. I will say in light of Lord Celtigar's actions tonight, the young man was a poor choice indeed and one I can no longer abide. My apologies to you and your house Lady Sansa. Rest assured I will see justice for you."

Rising to his feet, Stannis motions for his guards to follow. "The rest of this conversation would be better served if it only involved family, I believe. I will take my leave and bid you goodnight. We'll speak more of this on the morrow."

At his words Stannis shakes Jon's hand and then exits the cabin as quickly as he arrived. Sansa lets out a long breath she did not realize she was holding at his departure.

Jon follows Stannis outside. "Pod, Sam, you men head back to the castle as well. I wish to speak to Sansa and Clegane alone."

"Of course my lord," Pod bows to Jon and then to Sansa, who suddenly takes both of his hands in hers. "You took a great risk coming to our aid. Thank you ever so much my friends." Sandor grunts in agreement. "You did right by us, Payne. I owe you for that and you, too, maester."

Sam finishes his treatment of Sandor and smiles up at him. "You'll heal up just fine, Clegane. I'll leave some mineral salts for you here. Soak in them three times a day. It will speed the healing process and keep the wound clean." The young men steal one last smile at the couple before hastily moving outside.

Sandor rises and approaches Jon. "There's something we should discuss, Lord Commander. Today I asked your sister to be my wife and she has agreed. As her brother I would ask for your blessing."

Grinning, Jon looks at Sansa, whose cheeks are ablaze, blushing clear down to her chest. "Do you wish to wed Sandor Clegane, sister? I must hear it from your own mouth, you know."

Taking Sandor's hand she smiles, the first genuine smile he has seen from his sister since his arrival. "Yes brother, I love him very deeply. He is the only man I wish to wed or would even consider as my husband, for that matter. Please say you will give us your blessing, dear brother."

Cocking his head at the couple, Jon struggles to keep up a tone of seriousness. "Well, this is very sudden. Let me think on it now." Sansa's countenance falls so suddenly that her brother loses the heart to tease her. "You have proven yourself loyal to my family and protected my sister most admirably. I appreciate that you cared enough to ask but I would not deny Sansa's wish to marry you. She is so clearly in love with you that all the men of the Night's Watch know it as do all the Free folk. Despite your rough exterior, Clegane, you too are quite taken with her as anyone can plainly see. Take your ease Sandor, you may wed Sansa with my blessing."

Clearing his throat, Sandor shifts uncomfortably on his feet before answering tersely, "I thank you, Lord Commander. I love Sansa; in truth I have loved only her in my life. Be assured I'll do my best to be good to her."

Jon can barely restrain his amusement, seeing the ferocious Hound nervously pledge his love for his sister in such an awkward fashion. For a moment he smiles, thinking of what Robb would have said about this development.

Turning to Sansa, Jon gently takes hold of her hands. "Sis, you know I believe you should wed whoever you wish. I'll gladly give you my blessing." Raising his eyebrows Jon asks, "Well, when do you wish to wed? I would not have you wait on my account."

Laughing happily, Sansa hugs her brother close, whispering, "I wish to marry on the morrow, brother, in front of the Heart tree at noon. Does that suit?"

Jon smiles, nodding, "Tomorrow it is then."

"Please invite Pod and Sam, and Lord Stannis, if you must. We will invite the village tomorrow morning."

Jon tweaks her chin. "Consider it done."

Sandor uneasily steps closer, "My lord, I would ask what Lord Stannis has in mind for Sansa?"

"Of course Clegane-or should I say, goodbrother?" Jon laughs, causing Sandor's face to twitch into a small grin. "I knew Stannis would never take no for an answer when it came to Sansa. His plan was the obvious choice and I have anticipated he would make such a move for months. So, I held on to a very key piece of information as a bargaining tool for when the time presented itself. The reason I recommended Stannis gain the support of the mountain clans is due to intelligence I received about Arnolf Karstark from his niece Alys. According to her, he dealt treacherously with Stannis and in reality works for House Bolton. Arnolf tried to lure Stannis into attacking the Dreadfort and straight into a trap set by Ramsey."

"Gods be good," Sansa whispers, sinking into a nearby chair while Jon continues his story. "Stannis is mounting an assault as we speak and plans on taking Arnolf, his son Arthor and three grandsons captive for their treachery."

Sandor clicks his teeth. "Captive? Not Stannis. He'll execute them for certain."

Shaking his head, Jon comments, "Some men only understand violence, I've found."

"It's a horrible world, Lord Commander. Stannis knows how the game is played."

Jon nods and then turns to Sansa. "In exchange for my warning, Stannis has agreed to allow you to leave off from forming any marriage alliance on his behalf. It is the least he can do, considering the value of what I have given him." Sighing, Jon rises, "Still, he would like to see you at Winterfell. I would hope he would consider allowing your return with Sandor as your husband."

Hope glimmers in Sansa's eyes at his words, though they also bring a derisive snort from Sandor. "Unlikely, Lord Commander, highly unlikely that, though I would wish it for the Little bird and the rest of your people's sakes."

Jon nods in agreement. "As do I, Clegane. Sansa, please try not to get your hopes up. We will learn more after your wedding and later after Stannis' attack."

Smiling, she reaches out and touches Jon's cheek affectionately. "You have already done more than I could have ever asked, Jon. You took a great risk holding on to that information-too great. I would not have asked you to do such for my sake. Sandor is all I want, and having my family close to me. That is all I need to be happy, dear brother, and I thank you for all you have done for me-for us."

Jon kisses her hand and then turns to leave. "You deserve your happiness, Sansa, and I will always do my best to make sure you will have it. Besides this family could use more fighting men," he chides, slapping Sandor on the back as he whistles for Ghost.

Sandor gently leads Sansa back inside. "Now Sansa, I know you hope to return to Winterfell but when we wed that will no doubt put an end to Stannis' so-called goodwill. Are you ready for that?" he whispers, gently stroking her cheek. His eyes darken, betraying the fear she will reject him in favor of returning home.

Placing her hand over his, she presses it close to her face. "Yes my love, I am. As a matter of fact, I-" Sansa hesitates, her cheeks reddening.

"You-what?" Sandor rasps, amused at her embarrassment. "I would like for us to pledge our troth now my love, and not wait until tomorrow." Tilting up her chin, Sandor stares into her eyes, searching her thoughts. "Are you certain? What happened to saying our vows under the Heart tree and having your brother there as witness?"

Sadly, she looks down, rubbing his hand against her cheek. "I-I am afraid Stannis may try to prevent it. The old gods only require we say our vows, where we say them does not matter. We could still go through with a second ceremony in front of everyone tomorrow. What say you?"

Staring into her eyes, Sandor's heart begins racing with excitement. All he has ever wanted is about to become his. He would marry the Little bird any time, any place.  Sansa is looking into his eyes with such longing and affection, he knows full well he would not have the heart to deny her even if he did mind it. "Don't worry your head over Roose. I said it once and I'll say it again: I'll kill him if he so much as shows his ugly face north of the Wall, believe that." Grinning at her, Sandor pulls her close. "Little bird, let's do it. Let's say our vows right here, right now."


	11. The Secret Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While swearing his vows to the little bird, reality strikes Sandor: Sansa is now his and will forever belong to him in the sight of the gods and men. It is an answer to his most fervent prayers and after the destructive life he has lived, Sandor hardly dares believe the gods have seen fit to bless him at all, let alone with the deepest desire of his heart.

Sandor leads her to the hearth, gently lifting her on his lap facing him. At first startled, Sansa gladly submits, noting the serious expression in his eyes. "You ready, Little bird?" he asks, his voice rough and low.

"Yes my love," she whispers back, her eyes glistening with happy tears.

Reaching into his pocket, he nervously retrieves a braided cord of golden thread adorned with and intricate pendant. Examining the ornament closely, Sandor polishes it on his tunic first before taking it in his left hand. Sansa curiously watches him reach into the pocket closest to his heart and take out the pink strip of cloth from her dress. With surprising tenderness Sandor lightly fingers the material before giving it to Sansa.

"A strip from my old gown in King's Landing! I cannot believe you kept this for so long!" Sansa gasps, immediately recognizing it as a part of the gown she wore the day of the riots.

"Aye, I went back to see if you lost anything. Found it in the chaff next to those bastards."

"But why Sandor? Why did you keep it? I would have gladly given you my favor had you asked. I thought to do it but figured you would laugh at me for being foolish."

Snorting, he shakes his head. "A lady's favor? For Joff's dog? I kept it to remind me of you and everything you went through. For all the times I should have done more."

"My love," she whispers, shaking her head. "You must not burden yourself with this any longer. Let us put it away once and for all and begin anew."

Clearing his throat, Sandor takes her hands in his. "I don't know how it's done. Should we pray first?" Prayer still does not come easy for Sandor but he finds having someone he loves to pray _for_   certainly makes it easier.

"Yes, I think that would be right." Sansa closes her eyes, thanking the old gods for returning Sandor to her and asking a blessing on their union.

He is so nervous he no longer recalls the blessings he heard Elder brother offer over the peasant couples he married on the Quiet Isle, all desiring a fresh start away from the war-torn areas of Westeros.

Taking a deep breath, he chokes down his lack of faith and says the first formal prayer he has offered since arriving north of the Wall. First, Sandor entreats the Mother for protection for Sansa and that they are blessed with a long happy marriage and children. To the Warrior he prays for the strength to defeat anyone that may try to harm Sansa or their future children; to the Crone he prays for the wisdom to be a good husband to his beloved little bird. Sandor cannot help but think what drastic changes living on the Quiet Isle and his little bird has brought to his personality. Though there is plenty of Hound left in him, he is glad to put it aside for her sake, for Sansa his beloved wife.

Upon opening his eyes, Sansa squeezes his hand, her face glowing with excitement and happier than he has ever seen her. "I…I've only heard the vows of the Seven, Sansa. Do you care if we say them to the new rather than the old gods?" Smiling brilliantly she reaches up and holds his face in her hands. "Sandor, it does not matter. The Old gods will hear our vows too."

Trembling slightly, Sansa begins. "Sandor Clegane, I am yours as you are mine, from this day until the end of my days. With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband before the old gods and the new," she whispers, covering his mouth in a deep kiss.

When finally she pulls away, he places the woven cord with a highly polished weirwood carving of a dog with a little bird sitting on its shoulder. Sansa gasps, affectionately fingering the workmanship of the ornament. "Oh Sandor, it is lovely! Wherever did you get this?"

"I made it on the Quiet Isle. Not a lot to do there so I took up wood carving. I wanted to give it to you but never found the right time. Too many buggering people in the way." Throwing her arms around his neck she kisses him once more with such ardor it takes his breath away.

Clearing his throat, he gently pulls away from her, taking her hands in his own once more. "Little bird-Sansa, I am yours as you are mine from this day until the end of my days. With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife before the old gods and the new."

While swearing his vows, reality strikes Sandor: Sansa is now his and will forever belong to him in the sight of the gods and men. It is an answer to his most fervent prayers and after the destructive life he has lived, Sandor can hardly believe the gods have seen fit to bless him at all, let alone with the deepest desire of his heart. A sudden darkness invades his thoughts, for the brutal, unyielding Hound side of him cannot help but wonder if this is all a dream, another cruel jape of the gods at his expense.

He never hoped to take a wife or have a family, never even allowed himself to hope one day to have such things. Who would want him? In spite of his time on the Quiet Isle, Sandor Clegane is still the Hound, after all, the ugly scarred dog who deserted the Lannisters-not a husband or family man.

Pressing his forehead to hers, Sandor struggles to put aside his negative thoughts and gather his composure. Taking her face in his large hands and reverently kissing her, Sandor feels a lightness in his heart his has never known. As he pulls away, tears of happiness stream down her cheeks and gently Sandor brushes them away with his rough pad of his thumb. Sheepishly he holds his wrist out to her, silently cursing himself for being a sentimental fool while he waits for to tie on his marriage favor.

"I carried that with me ever since that day. It was the only piece of you I had left." Sandor mutters quietly. "Tie it on then, girl, if you mean to be my wife."

Eyes brimming with tears, Sansa raises the cloth to her lips and kisses it before tying it around his wrist. "There. Now my love, at long last we belong to each other!" Sandor clutches her tightly against him in response as hot tears fall on her hair and gown.

Pressing his large hand against her cheek, Sansa lightly touches the delicate pink silk material around his wrist. "My husband," she says, trying out the word for the first time. "Perhaps I should place it higher so it will be hidden from view."

Laughing low, he barks, "Hidden from who? Anyone who dares mock me for it will get the beating of his miserable life and can go bugger himself with a hot poker besides."

As the couple laughs together, a soft tapping comes from the door, eliciting a groan from Sandor. "First thing tomorrow I'm getting a bloody lock made for that door and dogs, too. It's so bloody cold I never thought so many people would snoop around this place after nightfall!"

"Everything all right, lass?" Nan's silvery voice asks. "I gots stew for you and your man."

Opening the door, Sansa cannot resist hugging the old woman, bringing a toothless grin to her kind, weather-beaten face. "What's all this now? Tis nothing ta get worked up over child. Men get hurt protectin' their kin ever now and again is just part of life."

Setting down the stew on the table, she jerks her head at two young men still out on the porch and then gestures toward the tub. "You boys fill it full, ya hear? He's a big'un, needs lots o'water." When the men finish filling the tub, Nan winks at Sansa. "You do like I said, lass. Take care of your man now, ya hear?" and then just as quickly as she entered the old woman closes the door behind her.

"I don't want no bath, woman," grumbles Sandor as he watches Sansa stoke the fireplace, gather fresh towels and place a bar of soap in a tray. Sitting on the bed, drinking from his wine flask with his clothes bloodied and his hair damp with sweat, Sandor's appearance reminds her of the last time he sat on her bed after a battle. _"I could take you with me. I'll keep you safe. Do you want to go home?"_   His words resonate in her heart and the memory recalls her feelings that night, emotions she thought long buried. _If I had gone with him, we would not have lost so much time…but then who knows how we would have ended up?_

Pulled out of her reverie, she leads him by the hand toward the steaming bath while gently removing the flask from his hand. "My love, Nan is right. You must bathe to keep the wound from becoming infected. You learned healing. I'm certain you must have given the same advice yourself many times over on the Quiet Isle. Here, look, I added the salts Sam left for you… please, Sandor?"

Begrudgingly he nods. "Aye but I'm going to need help with my clothes. You want to call one of those boys back in here?"

"No love, I wish to help you myself." Before he can protest she lightly places her fingers over his lips, hushing him. "Let me do this for you Sandor. I am your wife now and it is the least I can do, considering you were wounded protecting me."

"For fuck's sake Sansa, don't break your heart over it. It's barely a scratch, that."

Smiling, she lifts off his jerkin first and then the under tunic. Despite his gruff words he relents and lifts his arms for her, earning a merry laugh from Sansa. "Grumble and growl all you want, it is to be expected. After all, a dog never likes getting a bath."

Barking out his harsh laughter, he watches her in amazement, the pounding of his heart increasing as she slowly divests him of his clothing. "Depends on who's giving it," he growls low and she beams up at him coyly, blushing a lovely shade of pink. Once he is down to his breeches, she then removes his boots. Sandor grabs her wrist lightly, a wicked grin twitching on his face. "You planning on finishing what you started, Little bird?" He devilishly grins at her, thoroughly enjoying the deep flush spreading across his new wife's cheeks.

"Of course, love. I am your wife and it should be thus between us," she sweetly smiles at him. Her eyes never leave his as she begins unlacing his leather breeches, her boldness quickly dissolving his bravado. Her soft fingers brush against his manhood, instantly arousing him.

"Let me do that, Little bird," he mutters and Sansa giggles, gleefully noticing it is his turn to look embarrassed for once. "I'd like to see the day I can't take off my own bloody breeches, damn me."

Standing naked before her, Sandor chuckles wickedly and Sansa cannot help but stare at his heavily muscled, battle hardened body. With her cheeks aflame, she averts her eyes and hands him a towel, all the while stealing brief glimpses at him through lowered lashes, fascinated by his muscular physique and aroused state.

"Well you might as well have your look, wife, since you insisted on getting me naked," he rasps, lowering himself into the steaming bath. "No need to play the modest maiden with me. You're mine now, remember?"

Nervously smoothing her skirts, she starts to protest at his coarse words but cannot bring herself to do it. Seeing his eyes twinkling with amusement, Sansa discovers a warmer expression emerging as well, as though a fire has been ignited within the man. Gazing into his eyes, she feels it spreading throughout her own body as well. "Yes," Sansa finally whispers, her voice sounding breathless in her ears. "Let me help you Sandor," she says quietly while removing her heavy gown, leaving on her shift and smallclothes.


	12. A Honeymoon and Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I didn't say I wasn't afraid or that you weren't wrong." Sighing, she continues, "What I mean is, you cannot punish yourself for your thoughts, my love. I wanted to kill Joffrey and many times regretted I missed my opportunity. You know, in the Eyrie I daydreamed about that night, imagining you had taken a kiss too…" her voice drifts off, lost in thought.

* * *

Sandor stares agape at her, startled by her sudden daring behavior. Sansa smiles, pretending not to notice as she begins lathering his body with her hands. Turning the burned side of his face away from her self-consciously, Sandor notices his wife unabashedly holds his gaze as she bathes him, warming his heart with the love he sees shining in her eyes. Unwilling to disturb her, he remains perfectly still while taking in her soft curves as she tenderly washes him.

While rinsing his long hair, her expression turns unexpectedly solemn. Despite the enjoyment of being bathed by his new wife, Sandor stills her hands, regarding her changed demeanor closely. "Little bird, what is it?"

Shrugging, she averts her eyes. "I was only thinking-I was thinking this is what I should have done that night," she whispers softly. "You were so terribly bloody, even more so than you were moments ago." Pausing, she shakes her head as though trying to clear the image of her words from her mind. "You smelled of wildfire and smoke and wine-and worse. I should have cared for you, bathed your wounds. I could have at least given you comfort and the song you wanted for all that you did for me. I was such a child then."

Her words strike him like a heavy blow to the chest. Pulling her into his arms, he growls next to her ear, "I was very drunk. Might have hurt you, even. I meant to take more than a song, you know."

"I know, Sandor. I've known for quite some time. In King's Landing, you only knew two things that relieved your misery-wine and women. You already had drowned in wine and yet still you were afraid. So you came to me, thinking if you took me body and soul, it might ease your suffering."

"Damn it, that's no excuse for such thoughts, Sansa. You didn't deserve the way I treated you. I saw the fear in your eyes. I see it still," he shudders, haunted by the memory.

"I didn't say I wasn't afraid or that you weren't wrong, Sandor. What I meant to say is: you cannot punish yourself for your thoughts, my love. I wanted to kill Joffrey and many times regretted I missed my opportunity. You know, in the Eyrie I daydreamed about that night, imagining you had taken a kiss too-" her voice drifts off, lost in thought. "I wished you had, you know. Over the years I managed to convince myself you did. I often wished you had taken more than a kiss, too-sometimes I dreamed it."

"No, you don't Sansa, believe that!" Sandor growls at her, forcing her chin up to meet his gaze. "Bloody hells, woman, how can you say that? I-"

"Sandor, I needed to remember what it was to experience any emotion other than fear. I was numb and scared more often than not, so very sad and lonely. I missed having someone to talk to that wasn't after my claim, someone who did not want to hear the little bird chirp on command."

"Little bird," he rasps, out, resting his forehead against hers.

Taking his face in her hands, Sansa looks into his keen gray eyes. "I thought of you always. I even dreamed of leaping off the balcony just so that I could see you in the afterlife and I would be with my family again," she murmurs, unaware of the tears falling from her eyes. "I _know_ , Sandor-I know what it is to need to feel _something_ , anything, other than fear. I would be the last person to hold your thoughts against you, no matter what they may have been back in King's Landing. "

"My beloved wife," he whispers, burying his face in her hair. "Gods forgive me, I never should have left you there."

Burying her face in his neck, Sansa replies, "Let us speak of it no more, my love. It matters not now. This day we are husband and wife. I love you with all my heart and I will be forever grateful he gods saw fit to bring us together." Sansa smiles up at him. "We will never be apart again Sandor, promise me-I could not bear to be separated from you."

"We'll never be apart Little bird, I swear it," Sandor responds, nuzzling her neck, breathing in the lavender scent of her hair. "If anything happens that you don't like, I'll take you away from here, you only need say the word."

Shyly smiling, Sansa removes her shift and stands in front of him in only her smallclothes, blushing deeply under his heated gaze before taking him by the hand. "Come my love, it is our wedded night. I wish to love you, to give you the song you wanted."

Swallowing hard, Sandor eagerly takes her into his arms and lifts her on the bed. Suddenly nervous, his hands tremble as he swiftly removes her smallclothes. Tracing his fingers over her supple skin, he drinks in the sight of his beautiful little bird lying before him as naked as her name day. "Are you certain Sansa?" Sandor questions hoarsely as he kisses down her neck heatedly, hardly daring to believe everything he has dreamed of and wanted is now within his grasp at last.

"Yes, Sandor, oh yes my love," she manages, the soft feeling of his warm lips against her skin revealing intense pleasure. "I have craved you for so very long. Come into me, husband."

His gentle lovemaking engulfs her senses and soon she responds by wrapping her legs around his waist eagerly. Tenderly stroking his chest and back, Sansa kisses along his jaw line and neck with heated abandon while his hands freely roam her body. Having longed for such intimate pleasures with Sandor, Sansa yearns to caress and taste her new husband in all the ways her friend Randa used to describe to her. When she moves down his chest to his waist Sandor gently rebuffs her, knowing the feel of her hands and mouth on his body will be his undoing.

"Time for that later, love. You need to learn what you like first." Leisurely Sandor tastes and caresses every inch of her, languidly exploring each curve and swell of his wife's body. Trembling, Sansa finds her pleasure under his hands and tongue and finally the Little bird sings the song Sandor has longed to hear, moaning and crying out his name with abandon.

His lips curl into a small smile as he dips his tongue inside of her, knowing he will forever be the only one to hear her sing it, that it is for him and him alone. Sansa's obvious enjoyment gives the scarred man a deep sense of pride at the pleasure he is able to bring his beloved wife. Covering her body with his own, the feeling of her soft warm skin sliding against him strains his self-control. Sandor allows his teeth to gently graze the delicate flesh of her neck before moving down to each breast, leisurely caressing each nipple with his tongue.

When he is assured that she is ready, Sandor thrusts deep inside of her with a long moan, joining them as one in body as well as heart. Faintly he hears Sansa gasp beneath him, and feels her tightly grasp his shoulders for purchase. "Forgive me, wife, but there is no other way with maidens," he rasps out.

"I-I know love," Sansa hisses through gritted teeth. Sandor stills his movements and whispers words of comfort in her ear until finally she begins rocking her hips against his length. Gently he begins moving between her legs, waiting until she is ready for more before increasing his thrusts.

Completely filled with his manhood, Sansa's pain soon gives way to pleasure. She surprises him by grasping his hips and using her legs to pull him even deeper inside, calling out his name and entreating the gods by turns.

Encouraged by her sighs and moans, he quickens his movements, keeping his rhythm slow and steady until he feels her inner walls squeezing him so tightly Sandor is blinded with pleasure. Writhing beneath him, suddenly Sansa experiences a powerfully intense release and Sandor quickly follows, taking each of them by surprise.

"Sansa, oh, gods woman," he groans into her hair, panting as he collapses on top of her.

Smiling up at him, Sansa giggles softly while kissing along his jaw line. "I did not know that could happen to a lady," she confesses in his ear.

Sandor laughs long and hard before looking into her eyes. "It will with me, lass, you best believe that. Are you alright?"

Sansa nods sleepily. "Oh, yes, I enjoyed it very much. Our first coupling-it was beautiful, husband. Did you like the song I sang for you?"

Burying his face into her hair, Sandor's long suppressed emotions finally get the better of him at her innocent question. Her intense love has awakened needs the man thought long dead inside of him. It is a beautiful and unexpected new reality for him, to love and be loved so passionately in return.

Wrapping his body around her protectively, Sandor holds her close and caresses her skin. The man knows that now he has experienced her love, he will never be able live without it, without her, and no matter what the future may bring, he is determined nothing will ever separate them again. He will go to his grave keeping her safe and doing whatever he can to ensure her happiness, of that he is certain. He vows in his heart to do all he can to ensure she never has a reason for unhappiness again as he holds her close, slowly stroking her bare skin.

Sensing his mood, Sansa strokes his chest tenderly in return, whispering her assurances of love in his ear. The love and tenderness she is giving him is far more than he ever experienced in his life, more than he even dreamed possible. The man finds himself so deeply moved he is momentarily unable to speak."It was a beautiful song, my Little bird," he finally chokes out.

"Your song was beautiful, too, my husband," she teases, wrapping a lock of his hair around her finger. "I wish to hear it again, as soon as may be."

Tilting her face up to meet his eyes, Sandor speaks low and deliberate. "You are _mine_ now, Sansa. I swear on the old gods and the new I will never allow anyone to take you from me."

Snuggling against him, she drowsily replies, "As you are mine, my beloved."

Several moments pass in silence. Sansa soothingly runs her hands through the hair on his chest while Sandor struggles to express his feelings. _Just say it. Tell her, you bastard…"_ I…I love you, wife," he finally manages.

"And I love you, dearest," Sansa smiles as she covers his mouth with her own. Finally at peace, Sandor silently thanks the gods for her love and the new life that lies before them as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

The next day dawns bright and crisp for the couple. Sandor and Sansa spend most of the morning discussing the wedding, having decided to go through with a second ceremony. As Lord Commander on the Wall, Sandor reminds Sansa that it is important to leave no doubt about his sister's honor or the validity of their union before the men and Sansa agrees, though she is unwilling to have a public ceremony lest it draw Roose Bolton's attention. In the end it is decided they will only invite Jon, Sam and Pod, as well as Nan and Horen, the blacksmith Sandor has trained under for the past several months.

Together Sandor and Sansa approach Nan, the old woman clapping her hands excitedly at the news. Reluctantly Sansa tells her of the need for secrecy in light of the Boltons. Nan suggests, "Then don't marry in front of the Heart tree, child. Wed your man in front of the weirwoods to the north. It matters not; the sacred trees are all interconnected my dear, it is known. Your vows will be heard by the old gods, don't you fret on that."

Nan's words remind Sansa of her father's stories about the weirwood trees at Winterfell. "Oh Sandor, wouldn't it be lovely to wed in front of the immense weirwood we visited?" Chuckling under his breath, Sandor nods. "Aye, we'll wed there. Let's go tell your brother."

At midday as golden beams of sunlight stream through the dense scarlet colored leaves, Sandor and Sansa repeat the vows in front of the vast weirwood with only their family and dearest friends as witnesses. Sealing their pledge with a kiss, a strong breeze sends a gust of leaves descending upon the couple causing Jon to laugh out loud, "Sis, look! Father is giving his blessing on your wedding." Giggling she pulls Sandor close, thrilling at the sight of the giant crimson leaves swirling all around them.

The party follows the newlyweds back to their cabin. Hugging and kissing the couple, everyone but Nan and Horen quickly ride off. Grinning at the girl, Nan watches while Horen tacks two large weirwood leaves to their door. "There now, lass, that'll do. You and your man will be untroubled during your wedded night and for the week after. You have fun now." Turning she pokes Sandor in the chest, "And you, big man, you be good to your lady, ya hear me? If I'm learnin' contrary, I'll take my switch to ya, don't think I won't, neither."

Laughing sharply, Sandor looks down upon the tiny shriveled woman. "Aye, I will at that. You remind me a lot of my greatmother, Nan. She took her switch to my backside a time or two and I'll not doubt you'd do it, either. Rest assured, I'll be good to Sansa."

After the neighbors leave, Sandor lifts Sansa in his arms and carries her over the threshold. "Time for the honeymoon, wife," he growls in her ear, causing giggles to erupt from his young bride, the girl blushing deeply while thinking of the previous night's events.

For the next week the couple spent their time alternating between eating, sleeping and making love. Sandor only leaves the small cabin once a day to check Stranger and Sugar. In their newfound intimacy, the couple's lovemaking slowly mends the wounds of heart and mind.

At the end of their honeymoon, Jon arrives at the cabin. "Sandor, I need to speak to you in private. Where is Sansa?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Sandor replies, "She's napping. Let's go out on to the porch." Closing the door softly behind him, he asks gravely, "What it is?"


	13. A Threat Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Others have been attacking closer to White Tree in numbers that we previously would have thought impossible. They typically have stayed in the wild, never venturing into the larger communities of Free folk. The risk is coming from both directions, so it would seem."

* * *

Snuggled under the furs, Sansa awakens to the sudden rush of frigid air and the soft clicking sound of the cabin door latching closed as Sandor steps outside. From the porch she hears his rasping deep voice breaking the stillness of the early morning. _Who would come here so early?_   Sansa wonders to herself, wrapping the furs around her nude body as she gets out of bed in case the men should suddenly come back inside.

It has been three weeks since their wedding and though the honeymoon was supposed to have ended within a week, the wedded day weirwood leaves Horen nailed to their front door still remain up. During their time together Sansa and Sandor have heard the giggles and whistles of the Free folk passing by, but true to Nan's word, so far no one has disturbed them. Listening closely, she recognizes Jon's soft voice resonating through the door. The sound causes Sansa to blush and giggle. She and Sandor had only finished their lovemaking a half hour prior and if her brother arrived any earlier he would have interrupted them for certain.

Though she cannot hear the men's words, the seriousness in the tone of their voices arouses her curiosity. Hurriedly she throws on her dressing gown and robe and then tiptoes over to the door in her stocking feet, pressing her ear close to the frame.

"Stannis' troubles with the Boltons are just the beginning of our problems as well as his own," She hears Jon comment darkly. "The Others have been attacking closer to White Tree in numbers that we previously would have thought impossible. They typically have stayed in the wild, never venturing into the larger communities of Free folk. The risk is coming from both directions, so it would seem."

 _Did he say the Others? The White Walkers are real?_   Sansa always believed Old Nan's tales about the Others were simply old bedtime stories told to them with the sole intention of scaring Arya enough to keep her in bed after their Father snuffed out the candles for the night. Of course, once Arya had Nymeria and Needle, no amount of monster stories could keep her inside after dark-f anything such tales only gave her all the more reason to go exploring.

Straining to listen for Sandor's response, Sansa recalls that not long after they arrived at Castle Black, Samwell tried entertaining her by relating Jon's very first experience with one of the fabled creatures. Her brother deftly interrupted Samwell's account of Jon's rescue of Lord Commander Mormont and from then on she felt it was just the young man's way of scaring her, a rite of passage bestowed on southern newcomers.

"You mean those buggering undead sons of bitches are real?" Sandor asks, crudely putting her thoughts into words.

"Yes, I'm afraid they are. You're not scared of them, are you?" Jon teases lightly.

"Scared? Bugger that. All I need to know is how to kill them. I remember my greatmother used to say they can't be killed by a regular sword," Sandor grunts menacingly.

"She spoke truly. I'm having an obsidian blade forged for you as we speak. They seem vulnerable to the substance and fire as well. Fight them as you would any other opponent but be careful not to let them touch you. If you think the situation is hopeless and you are about to die, it is best to take your own life, lest you end up brought back as one of them-a wight, we call them."

"Humph, I thought my time with this magic shit was over. I should have kept Beric's flaming fucking sword for my troubles, then," she hears Sandor grumble low. Sansa's heart sinks at the mere mention of the man who used the weapon in question to inflict the wicked twisted scarring on Sandor's arm.

"Bloody unlikely I'd let any one of those bastards close enough to touch me."

"Listen, Sandor, let us speak plainly as we are family now. Naturally, as a soldier I would welcome having a man with your battle experience fight with us against them. However, as my good brother, I must insist you keep Sansa safe and protect her at all costs." Sansa hears Jon pacing on the porch. "You are her husband now, I cannot decide for your family. What say you?"

Holding her breath, time seems to crawl by as she awaits Sandor's reply. "Aye, I'll keep her safe. You know I cannot go fighting another enemy when I've sworn myself to her protection. But if there is as many of those undead bastards as you say, keeping her safe will be damn near impossible." Sneaking across the floor, Sansa peeks out through a slit in the heavy curtains at the men on the porch.

Sighing heavily, Jon softly taps the tip of his Valyrian greatsword Longclaw against the wooden planks of the steps, a nervous habit Sansa remembers him sharing with their father. "I know that all too well, Sandor. Stannis and I have debated the matter at length. Despite our opposing ideas, I believe I have a plan that will preserve this area and the smallfolk and rid us of the White Walkers once and for all."

"Stannis, huh? I wouldn't figure on him giving up his own fight to help you. What of the Karstarks and the Boltons?"

"Stannis has crushed the Karstark forces south of the Wall, killing all remaining heirs and leaving Winterfell empty save for a small garrison and a few stewards."

"Even the young ones?" Sandor rasps low.

"Yes, I am afraid so. The Boltons are in the process of regrouping at the Dreadfort. Having heard reports of the threat of the Others, their bannermen so far are unwilling to pursue Stannis north of the Wall, brave men that they are."

Snorting, Sandor leans against the water barrel. "And what does Stannis plan on doing here in the meantime?"

"He proposes to lead the remaining Free folk to Winterfell, which is a safe distance from the invasion of the Others in exchange for them unreservedly bending the knee to him."

"Damned unlikely, that. What about Mance Rayder? Isn't he King Beyond the Wall?"

"Not anymore. Stannis caught and executed him three days past in front of all his people. He gave them a choice: either bend the knee or be banished in the wild. Most of them bent the knee on the spot to avoid being sent into the wild with the Others."

"And all this shit happened during the time Sansa and I have been on our honeymoon?!" Sandor growls loudly, rubbing his hand over his beard. "We've been locked away in this cabin longer than I thought."

"Be glad of it goodbrother, for who knows how far Stannis would have wished to involve you in the fighting for no other reason than to get even with you for Blackwater."

"Aye, true enough, that. Sansa, come out now lass, I've heard you snooping in there for the past ten minutes or so." Jerking the door open, he laughs in spite of himself at Sansa's pouting face.

"How did you hear me? I was as silent as the grave."

"Come here, Little bird," Sandor rasps, pulling her close to him. "Heard what your brother said, did you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I did. Dearest Jon, remember the stories Old Nan would tell us before bed? What is to be done with such creatures?"

Sansa's words recall good memories for Jon. Old Nan would come into his room after the rest of the family was asleep and tell him stories but they were never the scary kind she told the other children. The kindly old woman would tuck him in snugly under the furs and then sit beside him, lulling him to sleep with stories about his Aunt Lyanna and how she loved the great Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

These stories where only for him, she would say and not to be repeated, not even to his father. As a boy, it made him feel special that she shared her special stories with no one else, especially after the icy treatment he received from Catelyn on a daily basis.

Each night Old Nan came sharing a few more details, adding to the story as time went on. "You even resemble the prince, you know that, boy? Only your colouring is different," The tiny old woman would smile, ruffling his hair.

"You saw Prince Rhaegar?!" Jon asked incredulously.

"Aye I did, at the tourney where he named Lyanna his queen of love and beauty. I see him still," she would wink at him, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

Even though the brave prince was married to another, she said, he had fallen in love with the beautiful and spirited Lyanna from the moment he saw her and their love was such that could not be denied. Eventually Rhaegar could not endure being separated from her and so he stole her away with him. Whenever Jon asked what happened to them, Old Nan would get up to leave and say with a grin, "One day Jon, you'll have the answers to your questions, for the end of this tale lies within you, lad."

It made him feel special and confused and he had never stopped wondering what she meant by that, since all he had heard from his father was that he joined Robert's rebellion and his Aunt Lyanna died before he could save her.

Sandor clears his throat, recalling Jon to the present. "Forgive me Sis, I was just remembering my favorite of Old Nan's tales."

Sansa smiles and pats his hand. "I miss her too. One day we will tell our children her stories."

"As I was saying, Stannis will lead the Free folk to safety in Winterfell and train any eligible men and spearwives in the art of war. With the Free folk gone, there will be nothing holding the Others to the wild. Only time will tell how long it will take them to venture further."

Sansa gasps, raising her hand to her mouth. "Oh dear gods-then what?"

Glancing uneasily between the pair, Jon says, "I have pleaded my case to Queen Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron throne, who as you know is also known as the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons."

"Dragons. Fuck me sideways," Sandor swears under his breath, closing his eyes and rubbing his head anxiously.

Confused, Sansa glances between the two men. "Yes, she has three I believe, hatched from her husband's funeral pyre. What of it?"

"Now you must understand, if the White Walkers kill man or beast they only add the fallen to their numbers. Should they continue their advance they will pose the gravest of threats to the entirety of Westeros, the likes of which has not been since before the Wall was raised. I have explained our situation to the Queen and she has agreed to bring the beasts here to eradicate the Others once and for all, Sansa. There is no other way to fight them. The Queen and her dragons are our only hope."

"The gods save us all," Sansa whispers, trembling in Sandor's arms.

"I've got you, Little bird, you'll be safe with me."

"My love, would that I could believe you." Sansa sighs sadly, snuggling into his embrace. "There is no way to protect us from Stannis, the Boltons, the Others _and_ dragons. And what of everyone else?" Sansa shakes her head in disbelief. "I'm almost afraid to ask if this could somehow get worse."

"Sis, we are all working together to end this threat once and for all. If we succeed, the Others will never threaten Westeros again. There is no need to fear the Queen or her dragons."

Sandor snorts derisively. "And Stannis?"

"Stannis will hold off his campaign temporarily. Sis, the only way this situation could get worse is if the dragons do not succeed. Queen Daenerys has assured me of success. Her dragons are not mere pets but are full grown and trained for battle. She means to launch an attack before the White Walkers reach the forested areas to keep the damage to a minimum. It will be easy pickings for her dragons out on the open ice fields. In the unlikely event they should fail, I am afraid all will be lost."

"Have either of you ever seen Harranhal?" Sandor asks grimly.

"No, I have not," Sansa answers, turning to Jon, who also shakes his head. "Arya was there for a bit. She says the place is melted and still smells of sulfur."

"Aye, true enough. Neither of you would worry about dragons failing an attack if you saw that place. The Seven bloody hells, that place."

Sansa nods, remembering Tyrion's story of the great castle and the terrible events that took place there. "What about Stannis, brother? What will the queen do with him and the Boltons?"

"That is for them to decide. I have agreed to stay out of it. If any of them had any sense they would bend the knee to her. The Queen is most reasonable but it is highly unlikely she will tolerate another royal realm within her own."

"A Targaryen versus a Baratheon, that I'd like to see," Sandor laughs low. "There's a battle many years in the making. I doubt Stannis will know he's beaten even with dragons raining fire on him. He barely flinched at the wildfire."

Instinctively Sansa embraces Sandor at the mention of wildfire and he allows it, nuzzling into her hair a moment before returning his attention to Jon.

"What of Rickon and Brann?" Sansa whispers close to her brother.

"The Reeds have them in a secure place, Sansa, they are quite safe. As you know, the Reed men have the gift of greensight and have taught Bran to use his gift as well. They claim Bran is undergoing a change of sorts-I do not claim to comprehend what they mean by that. Howland, Jojen and Bran have all seen the end of the Others will come by fire and that the destruction of the undead creatures will signal the beginning of spring."

"What do you wish me to do, Lord Commander?" Sandor rasps low, resting his chin on the crown of Sansa's head.

"Sandor, I would have you take my sister far away from here, as soon as possible."

"No, Jon, no! What about you? You would have me leave you here to face such a great threat without family?! Please, do not ask such a thing of me!" Sansa cries, her tears flowing freely. The wetness on her cheeks quickly freezes in the chilled morning air.

"Let's go indoors," Sandor motions for Jon to follow as he leads Sansa inside the cabin. Once the door closes, Sansa begins crying in earnest, much to Sandor's distress. At the sound of her cries Ghost howl mournfully in response, surprising them. "I thought your direwolf was mute," Sandor comments, handing Sansa a warmed handkerchief.

Shrugging, Jon watches his sister. "Before now he only howled once when I was in danger. He's bonded to the family." Sighing, he pulls his sister close to him, tenderly stroking her hair. "Sansa, look at me. Listen to me now. You must survive for Bran and Rickon and Arya's sakes."

"You are a true-born Stark of Winterfell, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell," Sandor tells her, tilting her chin up so she will look into his eyes.

Steeling herself, Sansa nods slowly as her tears slowly subside. "Forgive me, you are right, of course. It's only that this is all so sudden…we have already lost so much, I cannot bear to lose you, too, Jon. It is not to be born."

After gathering her thoughts, Sansa answers firmly, "Of course I will go brother, just as you wish. No matter what happens, I will make Winterfell the seat of our family and return our brothers and sister to their rightful place. Together we will bring Winterfell back to the beauty of former days. I swear it on the Old gods and the New."

Smiling, Jon holds her close, "I know you will, Sansa. Bran has seen our family return to Winterfell, "the wolves will come again" were his exact words. We must have faith in him. Now, do you have any idea where you may go?"

Sandor nods thoughtfully, "I have a small cabin I can take her to, hidden deep in the mountains of the Vale. Only the Burned Men clan knows of its existence and after looking at this face, they'll leave me be. She'll be safe there. When would you have us leave?"

"The Vale is a wise choice, Sandor. I would see you off at first light, I'll send men to see your things are made ready by then. The Queen will be here in two moons. If all goes well, this will be over soon enough and then we will all be together again, mayhaps in six turns of the moon."

"Must we leave so soon, Jon?" Sansa whispers, pulling him closer still.

"It is better this way, Sis. Drawing out our goodbyes will only make it worse. You'll be safe with Sandor. Now hurry, get your things ready. I'll be back later," Jon murmurs in her ear, kissing her cheek before abruptly leaving the cabin.

"Don't fret, Little bird. You'll always have me. I'll keep you safe, I swear it."

"I know my love, I trust you implicitly, you must believe me. We will get through this together as a family, I am sure of it." Pulling him close, she tenderly kisses him, cupping his cheek in her hand. "The gods did not return you to me for no purpose, my love. I have always wondered why I was spared when so many others were not."

Nodding solemnly, Sandor brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, "Aye, I've wondered the same myself over the years. It is a difficult thing to bear, love."

"Sandor, this is our destiny my love, yours and mine. The gods spared us for this, for our love and for our family and I am deeply grateful to them." Turning to glance around the cabin, Sansa sets her shoulders. "I am ready to go with you. No matter where we may end up my love, we will be together and that is all that matters. Let us begin packing."


	14. A Chilling Presence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible Sansa physically feels a foreboding presence that no one else does? "Little bird, talk to me. What is it you feel?"  
> Biting her lip, she pauses in thought. "It is almost as though the cold…is alive. Does that sound crazy?"

After leaving the cabin, Jon orders Podrick to deliver Sandor's newly forged obsidian sword. While Sam commands the residents of White Tree to gather at Castle Black directly, Edd and Grenn gather the Free folk in the spacious central courtyard of Castle Black. While watching the village scurry about, the Lord Commander ponders the grim situation, desperately trying not to let his mind think of what will happen should the Queen and her dragons fail to end the threat of the Others. The weight of his responsibility as Lord Commander weighs heavily on him but even more pressing to Jon is the survival of his family through the coming winter.

His mind wanders back to Ygritte, the brave and brash spearwife he lived with during his infiltration of the Wilding forces under Mance Rayder. He had loved her though he never said it out loud to the other Rangers once he returned, afraid if he put his feelings into words it would be considered a betrayal of his vows. _She would have loved to see a proper warrior queen riding a dragon. This is the fight she always wanted, to save her people._ He can still see her lying in the snow outside the castle, felled by an arrow. Shivering, Jon remembers how cold she was in his arms, her brilliant red hair full of snowflakes glittering in the pale moonlight as she whispered, "Is this a proper castle now? Not just a tower?"

"It is." He had answered and took her hand. "Good," she whispered. "I wanted t' see one proper castle, before…before I…" Jon could not bear to hear her finish. "You'll see a hundred castles. You're kissed by fire, remember? Lucky. It will take more than an arrow to kill you." Ygritte had just smiled at that. "D'you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave. I told you so."

How many times since then did he wish they had stayed in that cave, safe and warm, making love as though they had not a care in the world? Jon thinks of it still, more times than he cares to admit. But the Old gods had spared him during his time with the Wildings and now Jon is certain he knows the reason: it was to stop the Others from breaching the Wall, to put an end to their threat and restore Winterfell to his half siblings. Jon hopes his father is looking down on him and Sansa and that he is proud of them. Their family home will be a haven for the Free folk and Sansa will go into hiding, just as Arya, Rickon and Bran had done before her. If all goes well, she will be able to restore her home to its ancestral glory and the wolves will once again reside in Winterfell. It is her destiny, just as it was his to become Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Sighing, Jon rises and stands before the assembled crowd.

Once everyone is quiet, Jon briefly informs the local people of the coming danger from the Others, the plan to relocate the village to Winterfell and Queen Daenerys' anticipated arrival. Ever resilient, the Free folk people hurry into action, going back to their cabins to retrieve various weapons made of obsidian handed down from past generations and preparing for the long trip south to Winterfell. Sam and Podrick organize parties of Baratheon soldiers to begin evacuating the village with the elderly and ill leaving first, then families with small children and finally spearwives and men fit for battle. While the operation is under way, Jon oversees the preparations with Stannis' men until late afternoon and before once again going to Sandor and Sansa's cabin.

"What do you think of the obsidian blade, Sandor?" Jon calls, watching Sandor practicing out in the yard. Grunting, Sandor parries before thrusting the sword into his fencing dummy, sending pieces of the hay-stuffed figure all over the ground. "Finest sword I've ever owned goodbrother-many thanks," Sandor replies, testing the weight and balance of the new weapon before shaking the hand Jon offers. "It is a fine wedded present Jon, thank you," Sansa smiles tensely, unable to hide her apprehension. "May the gods see you have no need for it, Sandor. Are you two ready to leave or will you need more time? Pod has organized the first convoy to leave in the morning should you want to ride escort for part of the way."

"No, not sure that's a good idea. I doubt Stannis will agree to it." Sandor answers, jerking his head toward the south. Frowning, Sansa glances sideways at him and says, "But I'm sure we can travel with them until we reach Winterfell. Is that not so?" Sandor pauses and then nods in agreement. "Aye, we will love but we cannot stay there. We gotta keep moving if we want to reach the mountains of the Vale before the snow closes the passes."

"Have you planned which route you'll take?" Jon asks, stifling a grin when he notices Sansa frowning at her new husband. "We'll make for White Harbor, then sail to Gull town and then we head into the mountains. With no trouble it should take no more than two moons, I wager, if we travel hard."

"Well, see that you do, Sandor. How did you come by this cabin in the Vale? Is it in the Clegane family?"

Sandor laughs low. "No, I helped an old Stone Crow bury his wife on my way here. Turns out he was returning to his clan and had no need of it so he offered it to me. It's no castle to be sure but it's warm and close to the Eyrie."

"The Eyrie? But Sandor, I…I don't want to go to the Eyrie," Sansa whispers, involuntarily shivering.

Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulls her close and tilts her face so she will meet his gaze. "Love, Baelish is dead and your uncle and the Royces hold the Eyrie now. You don't have to go there if you don't want to-they won't even know we are there. The cabin is tucked away. Only the clans know of its whereabouts."

Sansa smiles and nods, relief spreading across her face at Sandor's words. "I'm sure it will be just right for us, then."

"It's just as well. I don't want Sansa anywhere near here when the Queen shows up with her dragons. When she learns my sister was once married to a Lannister, her favor towards the Starks may waver a bit." Grunting, Sandor agrees. "Once she finds out the Little bird is married to the brother of Gregor Clegane she may not be so pleased either, considering what he did to her goodsister and her brother's children."

"Queen Daenerys will not hold you responsible for Gregor's crimes," Sansa says firmly, the wolf-like strength of her voice surprising the men. "She will pardon Sandor or else she will punish us both. I refuse to believe she is like Rhaegar or King Aerys. I…I will not stand for her harsh judgment of me or my husband, not when her father had Greatfather Stark and Uncle Brandon killed. Jon, do you remember how Father said they died?" Swallowing hard, Jon nods slowly.

"Tyrion said she has fierce yet reasonable heart and I will not rest until she understands the truth of the matter and…and bother her dragons."

Both men stare at her, more than a little startled by her passionate speech. Sandor takes her hand, touched by his wife's loyalty. "I believe if anyone gets through to her, it will be you, wife. It will not come to that. I won't allow it."

"Agreed. I will stand by you both when the time comes and I will not send for you unless I see she is as "reasonable" as you say. " Sighing, Jon gathers Sansa close to him. "I would say our goodbyes now, sister, in private." Smiling, Sansa blinks back her tears and wraps her arms around him. "I have always loved you, Jon, though I did not show it as a sister should and for that I am very sorry. I am glad we have been able to find a place of understanding between us at last, brother."

"Me, too, Sis. I love you too," Jon whispers against her cheek, choking out his words. "You keep safe. Sandor, keep her safe, now." His mouth twitching into a small grin, Sandor slaps him on the back. "I'll keep her safe. You watch you back and don't let any of those bloody undead bastards get you."

Laughing, Jon nods, "I'll do my best. I'll see you both in six turns of the moon. Send a raven when you reach the cabin. I'll see you off at dawn."

* * *

"Snow's coming," Sandor remarks, resting his forearms on the doorframe of the cabin and gazing out into the blackness of night while Sansa finishes washing the dishes. "Should be here after the second watch."

"I can feel it," Sansa remarks, walking up beside him and placing her arms around his waist. "Does the cold feel…different to you?"

"Aye, I was trying to put my finger on it. It's almost…"

"Harsher," Sansa finishes for him, "A biting cold. I heard Old Nan call it that back home. She would talk about a cold so bitter it was as if the cold is a tangible thing blanketing the land. Even in Winterfell I don't recall ever feeling such in the air."

"Must be some truth in your house words," Sandor laughs.

Staring intently out at the night, Sansa squints as though trying to focus on something in the pitch darkness. "No, no it isn't winter that is coming…it's something else…"

"What is it, then?" Sandor asks, raising his voice in alarm . He remembers hearing the Starks have mysterious connections to winter and direwolves and even the weirwood trees. Throughout the years he heard rumors of all kinds of creatures north of the Wall and Sandor's greatmother used to tell him stories of the Others and their giant spiders. _Is it possible Sansa physically feels a foreboding presence that no one else does?_   "Little bird, talk to me. What is it you feel?"

Biting her lip, she pauses in thought. "It is almost as though the cold…is alive. Does that sound crazy?" Scowling, Sandor shuts the door and bolts the lock. "What the buggering hells is crazy? The Others taking over the land, a queen who cannot be burned by fire is sending her fucking dragons to stop them, Stannis' red witch…I don't know what in the seven hells to believe anymore. I'm glad we're leaving this damned place. The sooner the better."

Moving to the window, Sansa stares out into the blackness, looking for what she does not know. "Maybe we should go to Jon."

"You don't need to ask twice. I'll take you to Castle Black as soon as you're bundled up. Grab those furs off the bed," Sandor gestures while strapping on his armor and swords. "Light a lantern you can carry."

Hurriedly Sansa wraps herself up and brings the lantern while Sandor quickly saddles Stranger and unsheathes his obsidian blade. "Anything happens, you keep tucked close to me, you hear? Hang on, don't let go no matter what, understand?" Sandor says firmly, gripping her chin with his mailed hand. "I won't let anything hurt you, I swear it."

"I promise, I'll hold on," Sansa says, starting to climb up in front of him. "No, Little bird. Hand me the lantern and get behind me. Hold on tight now and stay underneath my cloak," he says as she positions herself in the saddle. "If I need to fight, my arms need to be free. Remember what I said now."

"Hold on and don't let go, no matter what," she repeats with a small smile and Sandor reaches back and kisses her tenderly on the mouth. "Ready?"

"Yes, Sandor."

"Stranger, make tracks boy," Sandor roars, spurring the giant warhorse in the flanks as they gallop toward Castle Black.


	15. The Battle and a Sign of Things to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor clears his throat. "You Starks have a connection to the winter, I know that much at least, same as with your direwolves. I've seen enough in my life to know better than to doubt it. When Sansa said she needed to see you I couldn't refuse her, not knowing what exactly she was feeling. It put her in danger. We shouldn't have risked it."

Racing through the woods on Stranger, Sansa notices steam rising off the lathered horse while Sandor spurs him on. The temperature suddenly drops further, the raw biting cold taking on an oppressive, ominous quality. _Just as Old Nan described it, like a blanket covering the land,_ Sansa shivers, burrowing further down into the furs and clutching Sandor's waist tightly.

"Sandor, the cold…it's getting much worse. It hurts to breathe it's so cold," she whispers against his back, not sure if he even hears her over the thundering of Stranger's hooves.

"Aye, love, I feel it too. Bloody hells it's freezing! I've never seen steam rise off an animal before. Fuck, this must be a new low, even for this gods-forsaken place." He growls against the bracing wind peppering his face. "Stay tucked under those furs. We'll be there soon; the castle's already coming into view." Peering around her husband, Sansa sees the twinkling lights along the battlements of Castle Black, the sight filling her with a small measure of relief. _We are almost there, just a little further…_

"Thank the gods," she says, followed by an audible gasp, for in the blackness of the surrounding forest, glittering blue eyes stare out at them, eerily reflecting in the dim light surrounding the castle walls.

"Sansa, what is it? You alright?" Sandor asks, craning in the saddle to face her.

"Sandor, look! The eyes-do you see them?!" She forces a strangled cry from her throat, desperately pointing into the night. "What sort of animal has eyes that glow in such a way?!"

"Fuck me, I don't know. No animal I've ever seen and I've hunted all my life," he growls, spurring Stranger onward. "Stay close to me now, little bird. Hold on tight!"

Without warning Stranger rears up on his hind legs, snorting and blowing fiercely as Sandor stretches back and grasps Sansa by the waist, all the while struggling to stay in the saddle. "What in Seven hells?" Sansa hears him swear, followed by the hiss of the icy air cut by the slashing of the obsidian blade. In the distance they hear the horn sounding from Castle Black. One blow, then two…and finally the third, signaling an attack by the Others.

"Sansa, stay close to me, no matter what happens!" Sandor shouts, drawing both swords. Sansa keeps her eyes tightly closed, listening as Sandor curses and grunts, his newly forged sword ringing out as it clashes against another blade. Roaring in fury, Sandor's muscles flex wildly against her grip, swinging his arms with all his might, the resulting shattering crystalline fragments showering the couple.

"There's a group of those bloody undead bastards up ahead! Hold on to Stranger now," he shouts, handing her the reigns as he swings down from the saddle. "Sandor, don't let them touch you!" Sansa cries, watching him check each fallen creature and then plunge his blade into them several times for good measure.

Archers with flaming arrows appear on the battlements, raining down fire on the approaching White Walker hoard nearing the castle, the sharp cries of the fallen echoing in the still forest. Sandor hears one of the rangers shout, "There are people down there!"

"The Lord Commander's sister! Get out here now, you men!" Sandor shouts at the top of his voice. Several rangers scramble out of the side gate of Castle Black, racing toward them with swords drawn and torches at the ready.

Soft footfalls crunch in the forest, alerting the couple from the rear. Wheeling around, Sansa looks on in horror at the creature approaching with wispy white hair and pale mummified skin carrying a spear made of crystal ambles toward them on horseback. "Even their bloody mounts are wights," Sandor shouts, staring at the animal's eyes glowing blue in the darkness, the rotting flesh of its neck draping down its flank.

The ear-splitting squealing of the undead horse pierces the night air as Sandor viciously thrusts forward, driving his obsidian sword deep into the throat of the wight animal before sharply driving the blade sideways, tearing out the throat of the undead creature. Stranger rears and trumpets loudly, his mighty hooves crashing down on the fallen White Walker rider, stomping and kicking ferociously, only backing away to allow Sandor to thrust in his sword. "Good work, Stranger! Shh, easy boy, easy now…they're all dead," Sandor speaks soothingly to the agitated warhorse, patting his neck and offering a small apple to appease him while gathering the reigns from a shaken Sansa.

"You folks alright? They didn't cut you, did they?" Ser Jaremy Rikker asks, signaling Sam to come forward and check the couple over. "No, no they didn't get me. Closest one got off a stroke that caught my fur, nothing more," Sandor grunts, carefully looking Sansa over. "You seem in one piece, little bird. You're pale as the snow though. Are you alright, wife?"

"Yes…yes, just a little taken aback," Sansa responds. "None of them came near me, you saw to that."

"Let's get the both of you inside the castle," Ser Jaremy nods, calling for the rest of the rangers to gather the dead creatures. "What are you going to do with them?" Sandor asks, watching them pile the bodies in a nearby ravine at the base of the castle's outer walls.

"We burn them all to make sure they can't come back as wights," the ranger called Rast replies, motioning for them to follow him. "In the past we made the mistake of burying a few of our rangers killed by them, only to see them raised to wights later. The Lord Commander killed one such creature trying to attack the then Lord Commander Jeor Mormont when he first arrived. That's how Lord Snow became his personal steward."

 _So, Sam's story was true and not just a story to scare me. Jon did kill one of these creatures in the past. I wonder if he ever told Father about it?_   Sansa muses quietly, making room for Sandor in front of her in the saddle.

* * *

Once safely behind the castle walls, Sansa begins to shake, leading Sandor to take her into his arms and carry her inside. "We can find a bed for you love, I'll meet with your brother," Sandor whispers to her out of earshot of the men.

"No, I am alright, just shaken up a bit more than I originally thought, husband," Sansa smiles at him, caressing his cheek. "Please, let us go to Jon together."

Ser Jaremy, Sam and Rast go with Sansa and Sandor to Jon's ready room, where they find the Lord Commander anxiously awaiting their arrival. "You men, leave us. I will speak to my family in private," Jon barks, hurrying over to Sansa who is still tucked in Sandor's arms. "My lord, we thought to-"

"I said get out, now. I'll call for you after I attend my sister and goodbrother," Jon shouts, jerking his head at his steward to escort the rangers out of the room. "Sis, are you alright? Sam's personal steward said you were not injured in the attack."

"No, brother, please do not fret. I am fine, only a bit shaken up," Sansa smiles, touching his cheek. Relieved, Jon sighs deeply and then asks, "What were the two of you doing out so late? Did something happen at your cabin?"

"Well, this may sound…strange but the cold, it felt so very different, bitter, almost like…"

"It is alive," Jon finishes. "Like it's a living, breathing thing, holding the land in its grasp. I recognized it too. It felt…dark, sinister even. I couldn't sleep for the change. Even inside the castle it was very noticeable, to me at least."

Sandor clears his throat. "You Starks have a connection to the winter, I know that much at least, same as with your direwolves. I've seen enough in my life to know better than to doubt it. When Sansa said she needed to see you I couldn't refuse her, not knowing what exactly she was feeling. It put her in danger. We shouldn't have risked it."

"No, do not feel such, goodbrother. You were right to bring her to me. We are stronger together," Jon grins at her, tweaking her nose playfully, trying to coax a smile out of his dazed sister.

"You speak truly, Jon. Are you certain you wish me to leave, brother? Even with all of these creatures afoot, you would have me leave you as the only Stark here?" Sansa does not like the idea of leaving her brother and the evening's events have only compounded her reluctance.

"Yes, you must stay safe, Sansa, for the sake of our family. Father would have wanted it this way. This is the only way and I would be distracted if you stayed, worrying about you. Try and get some sleep, now. I'll have Sam bring in some hot mulled wine for the both of you. You leave with the convoy at first light, understand? I'll brook no refusals," Jon says, taking note of Sansa's frown of protest as he opens the door and signals his steward to usher them to their room, leading Sandor to chuckle as he leads her outside.

* * *

Snuggled down under the furs, Sandor holds Sansa tight against his chest, relishing the feeling of her silky hair covering his bare skin while her fingers draw little patterns over his heart. "Sandor, perhaps we should not stop at Winterfell," she says quietly, breaking the stillness of the room after their lovemaking.

"Why Little bird?" He asks, tilting her face up to his. "Afraid you won't want to leave?"

"It is true I may wish to tarry once I am in Winterfell but after what happened tonight, I just think it would be best to get to the Vale as quickly as possible."

"Scared you, did they?" He chuckles, pulling her on top of him, burying his face in her hair. "I know, I don't like them much myself. We'll do whatever you wish, Sansa. You don't need to decide tonight."

Nodding, Sansa nuzzles into the warm nape of his neck, gently rubbing her cheek against his beard. "I could have lost you, my love," she whispers against his skin. "Not likely, that. I didn't come all this way to die at the hands of those bastards. I'm a hard man to kill. You're safe with me Little bird," he whispers into the crown of her hair. "I know, my love," she whispers back. Soon the mulled wine has its effect on the couple and they doze off into a restful sleep.

* * *

The acrid smell of burning sulfur assaults Sansa's nose as she waits beside Stranger. Sandor finishes tying their bundles to Sugar and begins strapping on his armor, "Bloody hells, it smells like Harrenhal out here."

"Jon, what is that burning smell? It is most unpleasant and cannot be good for the men," Sansa coughs, raising a handkerchief to her face.

"We kept sulfur burning in the ravine overnight to make sure nothing remains of the Others," he replies while helping Sandor strap on the last of his light armor. "I will not chance any of them coming back a second time."

Frowning, she slowly nods before moving to allow Sandor to lift her in front of him in the saddle. "Many thanks, goodbrother. We may not stop at Winterfell after all, depending on the little bird. I'll send a ravens along the way, keep you informed of our whereabouts."

"You don't wish to go home, Sansa?" Jon asks, taking her hand in his and kissing it lightly.

"There will be time enough for that when this is over. I wish to get to the Vale as quickly as possible. I would not have you delay in putting an end to this invasion for the sake of my sentimentality," Sansa smiles, her bright blue eyes glittering with tears. "Goodbye brother, we will be together again in six moon's time."

"Goodbye Sis, goodbrother," Jon chokes out, struggling to maintain his composure in front of the men. Waving, he watches the couple ride slowly out of sight with a heavy but determined heart. He will put an end to the Others once and for all and see his family restored to the ancestral home of his father.

* * *

Howling blizzards slow the party's travel south toward Winterfell. The trip is long and arduous but following Stannis' determined pace, in three weeks' time Wintertown comes into view, overshadowed by the huge granite outer walls of Winterfell. The sight of home saddens and gladdens Sansa by turns as they draw near the once mighty castle. With its towers singed during the Greyjoy rebellion and the partial collapse of the First Keep and Great Hall, the castle bears little resemblance to her childhood memories of the once grand complex. Seeing her home for the first time since leaving for King's Landing nevertheless fills Sansa with a steely determination to bring the seat of the Starks back to its former days of glory. Sensing her mood, Sandor wraps his arms tightly around her waist, whispering in her ear, "You're a Stark wolf through and through, wife. Don't fret, you'll see it back as it once was Sansa, believe that."

Smiling at him, she gently wipes her tears away. "Our children will never know it otherwise, my love." Glancing skyward, she spots a fierce red comet burning across the sky. "Sandor, look! A red comet!"

"Aye, I see it," Sandor responds, glancing at the ranger next to him. "It's Mormont's torch," he shouts, leading the other rangers to cheering their fallen former Lord Commander.

Sandor pulls reign on Stranger to take in the unusual sight and Horan pulls his wagon along the couple. "That red comet has nothing to do with the Old Bear. Stars don't fall for men." he says definitively.

"No? What does it signal then, old man?" Sandor asks, amused at the normally quiet blacksmith's authoritative tone.

"That red comet only means one thing, son, and make no mistake. Dragons," Horan nods firmly at the celestial sign trailing off into the distance.

Shuddering, Sansa looks up at Sandor. "She's coming, Sandor. The comet shines for Daenerys."


	16. The Lone Wolf Returns to Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drawing a deep breath, Sansa quietly takes in the destruction around them before her eyes settle on the inner courtyard. For a moment she pictures her younger brothers standing in the same area, filled with terror the day of the rebellion. Here it was that Theon, the man we considered a brother betrayed us and killed members of our household.

"Welcome home, my lady," Stannis greets Sansa as Sandor leads Stranger inside the massive East Gate leading to the castle courtyard. Melisandre stands beside him, red and terrible, her appearance in sharp contrast to the bleak wintry surroundings. Catching sight of the lord and his priestess, Sansa stiffens but nods politely, forcing her mouth into a taut smile.

"I killed Beric Dondarrion and his fucking red priest could not stop me, Little bird. Say the word and I'll kill that red witch, too." Sandor mutters, glaring at them.

"Let us see what they have to say first," Sansa whispers against his cheek before kissing him softly. "Aye, have it your way."

Turning toward the welcome party, Sansa smiles winningly, her mask of courtesy firmly in place. "Thank you Lord Stannis." Turning to the red woman, Sansa bows her head. "You must be Lady Melisandre-what a pleasure it is to meet you at last."

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Sansa. Your family seat is a most beautiful place, indeed. It pleases R'Hollor that you have welcomed his chosen one into your ancestral home.

"I am happy to hear that, Lady Melisandre," Sansa nods, struggling to hide her confusion. "That's their fire god, little bird," Sandor coughs behind her.

Stannis nervously glances at the two women. "Please my lady, won't you get down and take your ease? Once you have refreshed yourself I would like to escort you and your husband on a tour of the castle."

"Yes, Lord Stannis, that is a most excellent idea, thank you." Sandor dismounts first and then carefully lifts Sansa out of the saddle. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she squeezes her husband close for a moment before resting her feet on the ground.

The courtyard is alive with soldiers and Free folk bustling about, eager to show their gratitude by working hard on the repairs to the outer wall and cleaning the soot from the granite exterior. Drawing a deep breath, Sansa quietly takes in the destruction around them before her eyes settle on the inner courtyard. For a moment she pictures her younger brothers standing in the same area, filled with terror the day of the rebellion. _Here it was that Theon, the man we considered a brother betrayed us and killed members of our household._

"I'm glad you killed him," Sansa says softly, reaching for Sandor's hand; Sandor wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him in response. "I'd kill that bastard a thousand times for what he has done here," he growls menacingly. Nodding, Sansa pats his large hand resting securely at her waist, "Thank you, my love. Our family has justice because of you."

Silently, Stannis patiently watches the private exchange between husband and wife. "Forgive me, Lord Stannis, I am a bit overwhelmed by all of this as you may well imagine. I would go to the godswood with my husband first to pray. We will meet you in the Great Hall in two hours; does that suit?"

"Yes, Lady Sansa, we will meet you then. Enjoy your worship," Stannis bows and walks away, followed by the red priestess.

"All that buggering politeness. So unlike the Stannis I remember," Sandor mutters.

"Only because he needs me to ensure the north's support before Daenerys arrives. He's no different than the rest of them." Sansa says with resignation.

* * *

Kneeling together before the Heart tree, Sandor and Sansa take turns offering their prayers to the Old gods. Sandor gives thanks for his wife, for their safe journey and that they have allowed them to return to Winterfell together, while Sansa asks for strength, protection and their blessing on returning her family to their ancestral home. After they finish, the couple sits together next to the pool beside the Heart tree in silence, each meditating on their current situation.

"My love, I am so grateful the gods brought you to me. Your love gives me strength, more than you know. Winterfell is your home now, too. I hope one day you will come to love it as I do."

"I already do, wife, because Winterfell is a part of you. Just like the winter and the direwolves and the snow, you belong here. You are stronger inside these walls, Sansa, believe that." Smiling, she settles herself into Sandor's lap. "We are stronger inside these walls my love; we are stronger together. The Old gods have seen to bless us in such a way and I will forever be grateful," she whispers before kissing her beloved husband soundly.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Sansa quietly leads Sandor by the hand through Winterfell, surveying the damage during the tour of the castle with Stannis Baratheon and Melisandre. The castle smells of smoke and ash but most of it remains in relatively good condition. Shivering, Sansa wraps her arms around herself as they proceed through the First Keep.

"The Maester's Keep is in ruins, as well as one entire wall of the Great Keep. The collapse of the roof of the Great Hall renders the traditional Stark receiving area uninhabitable," Stannis says severely, his voice fading into the background as Sansa's eyes fall on the carved granite statue of a direwolf in the lichyard.

"Lady," she whispers, running toward the final resting place of her beloved pet. Kneeling down beside the granite direwolf, Sansa gently runs her hands over the statue before resting her head against the figure for several long moments. Sensing her mood, Sandor goes to her, wraps his arms around her waist and gently pulls her to her feet. Pressing her back close to his chest, Sandor whispers to her while tenderly stroking her middle. "I know, love. You miss her still."

"She was a part of me, Sandor. She always will be," she says tearfully, allowing her husband to gently lead her away. Continuing onward, the group moves toward the Great Hall. Sighing, Sansa frowns at the sooty ruins of the once great reception area. Running her hands along the remaining wall, Sansa shakes her head sadly. _I am Sansa Stark, now Clegane, Lord Eddard's daughter and Lady Catelyn's, the blood of Winterfell. I am stronger within these walls…_

Lost in her memories, Sansa can almost hear the music playing inside the Great Hall the day of the feast for King Robert. Jeyne Pool sat at her side and they whispered and laughed, so excited they were that day. She had eaten her fill of lemon cakes and Arya had thrown of spoonful of stew at her before Robb carried her off. Now only the ghosts of days gone by occupy the damaged space.

Sandor gently rests his arm around her waist. "I remember how it once was, too," he whispers into the crown of her hair. "We will bring it back to the way it was in former days, I swear it."

Nodding, Sansa moves to the center of the room. _The whole household was together that day and we were so very happy._ Mother and Father, Rickon and Bran, Arya and Jon, Robb…and Theon. Maester Luwin, who taught her how to mend wounds when her lady mother fainted at the sight of her brothers' injuries. Old Nan, who told them scary stories and tucked them in on the coldest of nights. Hodor, who loyally cared for Bran and loved him as much as any blood relative. Jory, the captain of the guard who asked for her hand in marriage on her twelfth name day…now, none of them are here to welcome her. She wonders what her father and Robb think in the afterlife knowing that it is Stannis Baratheon, of all people, who welcomed her home this day.

"Theon Greyjoy," Stannis mutters, the sound of his voice taking her out of her thoughts. Patting the sooty granite walls of the Great Hall, he clicks his tongue. "Robert told Lord Eddard he should have killed the boy when he captured him. I'm afraid your father paid a terrible price for his kind heart, my dear. I am very sorry for all that you have lost."

 _Baratheons do not belong in Winterfell. This is the home of wolves, not stags…_ Bristling, Sansa wipes away her tears and sets her shoulders. "My father was a man of honor, a man of his word, a man of principle. It was not his way, nor is it our way to kill an innocent child based on the fear of what that child may become later, as Robert tried with Daenerys Targaryen. Let us be thankful his assassination attempts failed or the gods only know where we would be now that the Others have returned."

"No, it was not his kind heart that led to this, no more than it led to his execution. The responsibility lies solely with the men who hated my family. Their names do not deserve to even be mentioned in my family's seat. I hope that in whatever hell the gods saw fit to send them to, they are aware of their absolute failure. I would ask that you see that no one utters the names of the traitors inside these walls, Lord Stannis," Sansa whispers, hastily wiping away her bitter tears.

"It has already been commanded, Lady Sansa. Rest assured my lady, with the success of your brothers plan brought to fruition, you will be able to return Winterfell to her days of glory in the very near future," Stannis replies, his voice confident and strong.

Melisandre drops back, walking beside Sansa and in response Sandor pulls her closer to him, glaring at the red priestess. "The dragon queen is an abomination, my lady. The Lord of Light stands behind Stannis as the rightful heir to the Iron throne."

Stunned, Sansa raises her eyebrow at the red priestess. "I will honor my father by seeking peace and a mutual understanding with the Queen, just as he wished to do in King's Landing."

"His will cannot be ignored or denied, my lady. R'Hollor will not tolerate Daenerys' existence indefinitely and she will be soundly defeated. I have seen it in the fire and one day you both will be witnesses of this truth."

Eying the red priestess cautiously, Sandor chuckles low at her words. "Fire against fire, is that the way of it?"

"Death by fire is the purest death, Sandor Clegane," Melisandre replies archly.

Snorting, he moves between the red priestess and his wife. "Pure, you say?" Sandor growls, pointing to his scarred countenance. "Bugger that. Bugger your cryptic religious double talk, too. Where was the Lord of Light when the Others rushed Castle Black?" Shaking his head, he draws Sansa's arm through his.

"I understand your lack of faith, given that you have met his one of his servants before in battle, Sandor Clegane."

"Aye, I met Thoros and Beric. Defeated them, too. They hoped to send me to the Seven hells and they failed, for all their sorcery and bloody fire. I know what hell is, believe that. You challenge the Targaryen queen and you're like learn that first hand, as I have. We'll see then how the Lord of Light stands up to her dragons." Sandor snarls at her, leading Sansa away.

Noticing Sansa's grave expression and Sandor's insolence, Stannis steps forward. "Melisandre, would you see the information for evacuation prepared in my ready room? I want to make sure Winterfell's daughter is fully apprised of our plans before leaving us."

"Certainly, my lord," Melisandre smiles before walking away. "I look forward to talking to you later, my lady."

"Thank you," Sansa replies, her pleasant smile dissolving once the red priestess disappears. "My lord, please believe me when I say I wholeheartedly respect your religious devotion. As guests of House Stark both you and your priestess are free to worship as you see fit while you are here."

"Lady Clegane, you are most gracious; thank you."

"It is the Stark way to accept others who are different from us though we worship the Old gods of the forest. I do not wish to be rude but neither do I wish to receive her testimony about the Lord of Light during our stay. I am confident that our beloved ancient godswood will remain untouched, is that not so?"

"Of course my lady," Stannis replies through gritted teeth. "Neither Melisandre nor I would desecrate Winterfell or its godswood, you must believe that."

Folding her hands, Sansa purses her lips before speaking. "Pray forgive me but I do not, my lord. Word reached us in King's Landing about your priestess' treatment of the Seven at Dragonstone. I am also aware that you burned the godswood at Storm's End as a sacrifice to your god. The Starks have experienced the power of the Old gods for centuries and I will not have them dishonored in our ancestral home. My brother Bran is most intimately connected to the Old gods of the forest and I assure you, no Stark or Clegane will accept anything less than respect for our beliefs. I am confident you will abide by our wishes while you are here," Sansa smiles genially, smoothing her skirts as she waits for Stannis' reply.

Sandor watches Sansa with pride and stands sword at the ready in case more than words are required to convince the lord. "Of course. Pray forgive me Lady Sansa, we meant no offense. There will be no more discussion on the matter of religion here and you have my word that the sacred places in Winterfell will remain as they have for centuries."

"Thank you my lord. I certainly appreciate your reassurance. Forgive me but I am quite tired and wish to pray and rest up a bit. Might we have the pleasure of you and Lady Melisandre's company in the family dining hall this evening?"

"It would be my honor, Lady Sansa. I will leave you to your husband now," Stannis bows before walking back to the former servant's quarters functioning as his ready room.

Once Stannis is out of sight, Sansa sinks to her knees, covering her face with her hands as she sobs out her grief, finally allowing herself to mourn all she has lost. Her cries are primal, anguished, wrought from years of suppressed suffering and sorrow. Sandor paces as he watches her, helpless and uncertain. After several long moments he decides to move her into their rooms. Placing one arm under her thighs and lifting her into his arms, he notices Sansa pays little heed to his ministrations, her wailing continuing unabated. "Let it out, little bird, it's all right," he rasps against her neck, gently nuzzling the soft skin there. "Let's go back to our room so we have some privacy."

Carrying her inside, Sandor kicks the door closed before gently laying her down on the fur covered bed. The room only faintly smells of smoke yet the inside remains relatively untouched. Sniffling Sansa sits up and reaches out for him. "My love, I just need you to hold me for a bit," she whispers and Sandor lies down beside her, gathering her close in his arms.

Soothingly stroking her hair, Sandor whispers words of reassurance to her as her breathing slowly returns to normal. "We'll rebuild, Sansa, believe that. Your brothers and sister will return and soon the castle will be as good as it ever was. Just a little while longer to wait, that's all, love. It will all be over soon."

Soon the exhausted pair drifts off to sleep. Sandor awakens a few hours later to the dinner bell sounding in the family dining hall. "Sansa, get up. Dinner's ready for us."

Smoothing down her hair and skirts, Sansa stares at herself in the mirror, remembering when her mother used to brush her hair and tell her stories of knights and fair maidens. _My prince turned out to be a monster and the Hound became my knight in shining armor_ , she smiles sadly at her reflection.

"Am I presentable?" She asks her husband worriedly, pinching her cheeks to bring back the rosy color. "You're beautiful, same as always."

"Can you tell I've cried?"

"Yes but for fuck's sake, Sansa, who wouldn't after what you've been through today? Stop fretting now," he says more gently, pulling her on his lap. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, very much so."

"Good, let's go eat. I'll make sure that bloody witch keeps her opinions to herself. "Fire is a pure death"-bloody hells! I should have slit her throat for that buggering load of shit!" Sandor swears angrily, sounding very much like the Hound and causing Sansa to laugh in spite of her solemn mood.

"You showed remarkable restraint my love," she smiles, kissing his cheek and tweaking his chin playfully. "Melisandre is most fortunate to have met you after you lived on the Quiet Isle. She would not have fared half so well with the Hound from King's Landing."

"Aye, true enough, that. And you have shown remarkable strength, wife. You have grown into a wise and beautiful woman, lass." Sandor replies seriously, brushing a stray curl from her face. "You do me and your family proud."

His words touch her deeply and she smiles happily even as her eyes fill with tears. "Thank you, Sandor. I needed to hear that," she whispers, tenderly kissing each side of his face and then his lips. "Let us hurry through this meal so we can be alone once more."

"As you wish, wife," he laughs, taking her hand and leading her to the dining area.

Dinner is a modest meal of root vegetables, venison stew, sourdough rolls and iced blueberries. Save for a few comments, Stannis and Melisandre keep the conversation to the business of repairing Winterfell and evacuating the Free folk, much to Sansa's relief. Sandor spends the evening glowering, demonstrating he is in no mood for their religious talk. Sansa hates to think what he might have done if they had renewed their earlier prophetic speeches after she expressly asked them to refrain.

Excusing themselves early under the guise of needing to an early start, Sandor and Sansa retire to their room. Snuggling down under the furs, Sansa smiles to herself, listening to the familiar wailing wind outside. "As a child, I went to sleep every night to that sound," she whispers against Sandor's warm chest. "Aye, love, and you will again. Our children will grow up as their mother, listening to the same sound every night as they huddle together under the furs."

In the distance a lone wolf howls, filling the night with its song. "Your kin are welcoming you home," Sandor chuckles, pulling her close and running his hands languidly over her bare skin. "The wolves will come again," Sansa says quietly. "Bran said Jojen Reed dreamt it; it is a prophecy. I believe it is meant for us-for the Starks and now the Cleganes."

"So do I, love," Sandor grins at her before blowing out the candle.

* * *

In the early morning mist, the couple departs from Winterfell and eagerly makes their way to the Kings Road. After three weeks heading south Sansa notes the chilly weather still has the feel of the north. "I do not remember it being this cold on the King's Road when we traveled to King's Landing, do you, Sandor?"

"No, I don't recall it feeling this wintry then, either. "I'd take it as a sign we need to keep travelling hard, little bird."

After six weeks on horseback the couple reaches White Harbor. Allowing for a day of rest, together with their horses they board the first ship leaving for Gulltown, eager to reach the Vale before the snows close up the mountain passes. Two weeks of rough weather, terrible food and sea sickness mark the difficult journey and it is a great relief when the bustling harbor of Gulltown finally comes into view. "At last! I see land, Sandor!" Sansa excitedly shouts, dragging him to the porthole to view the harbor with her.

The people of the city are all abuzz about the red comet, which has remained visible in the sky the entire time they traveled. Avoiding the masses, Sandor and Sansa spend a week recuperating at a small inn, allowing the horses the opportunity to rest up before heading into the treacherous mountains of the Vale.

On the first relatively warm day since arriving in the port city, the couple packs their belongings and begins the arduous ascent into the mountains.

A full turn of the moon and fortnight pass until at long last, weary and cold, the couple reaches the modest cabin just as the first heavy snowfall descends upon the Vale.

"Is this home, Sandor?" Sansa asks excitedly as the small log structure comes into view.

"This is home, little bird. It's no Winterfell but we'll be warm and safe here."

Sansa beams up at him. "Home at last! It's perfect, my love-just like our little place in White Tree."

Barking out his snarling laugh, Sandor pulls her close. "Anywhere looks better than the inside of that dirty tent, eh little bird? After we rest up, I'll send word to your brother that we have arrived. Now he and the dragon queen can rid the world of those bloody undead bastards at last."


	17. Burned Men, Direwolves and Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly the thunderous beating of wings envelopes the men, the ensuing gust of wind swirling snow and dirt around the assembled members of the Night's Watch. When the dust clears, Jon raises his eyes to find himself face to face with an enormous black and red dragon. The creature cautiously moves closer, all the while watching him with a superior intelligence that Jon finds both fascinating and unnerving.

Traveling the icy trails through the back country, Sandor contemplates the life he and Sansa have built together since arriving at the cabin. They have managed to endure the biting cold, scarce game, sudden blizzards and rocky terrain with little difficulty, for life north of the Wall sufficiently prepared them for this challenging environment.

Living among the mountain clans, however, has proven difficult at best for the couple. From what they have seen, their fearsome reputation is no mere exaggeration. Sandor knows the clans are the most important element in making the Vale an ideal place to keep Sansa safe, for the fierce mountain tribes offer a strong deterrent to anyone venturing into the region.

The Burned Men tribe violently countered their presence, challenging them at every turn after their arrival. The chief allowed it, for though he had given Sandor the cabin himself, tribal customs required him to prove the strength to which his scarred face only hinted.

A sennight after their arrival, a small group ambushed Sandor on his way back from the Eyrie. In the particularly brutal fight that ensued, he killed four clansmen and one spearwife. Afterward he found himself on trial before the red hand of the Burned Men, Timmett One Eye. Since returning to the Vale after Blackwater, no clansmen inspires as much dread as Timmett, who served Tyrion long ago. Despite the red hand's awestricken reaction to his scars, Sandor felt certain the young leader's decision would go against him-until the Little bird arrived.

Riding into the tribe on Stranger's back as regal as a queen, Sansa astonished Sandor, Timmett and the clan alike. Promptly she requested an audience to plead the case for the life of her husband with the chieftain. Though clearly taken by her beauty, the fierce young man watched her warily as she spoke, until Sansa reminded him that before he was the red hand, he was in the service of Tyrion Lannister.

"You are Sansa, the daughter of Winterfell that the half man took to wife, kissed by fire. Your brother was the Young Wolf, king in the north who the Boltons killed."

"Yes, you speak truly, Chief Timmett," she said. "I am honored to meet you. Tyrion Lannister, to whom I was once wed, spoke often of your loyal service and bravery."

"Did he now?"

"Yes, he spoke of your courage at the battle of the Green Fork and told how you kept up the charge even after your horse was killed. I appreciate the loyal service you gave Tyrion and because of your loyalty to him, I am confident you will make sure that Sandor and I are left in peace."

Grinning, Timmett motioned for her to approach him. "Sansa, wife of Sandor Clegane, tell us: if you put so much worth in my service to your former husband, why did you leave the half man?"

The fearsome chieftain studied Sansa with his good eye, leaning in close to her as he awaited an answer. To Timmett's visible surprise, Sansa did not flinch at the huge warrior but merely stared him straight in the face. "I ask you, Chief Timmett: how can a wolf stay among the lions when forced into the marriage? If that was the only objection I may have relented in time. However, I have only loved Sandor Clegane since we first met. Tyrion loved my handmaiden, Shae. I believe you met her, as she once was one of his camp followers."

Smirking, the chieftain nodded and Sansa's cheeks colored as the men around him laughed contemptuously. Sandor was livid that the men seemed to enjoy his little bird's apparent embarrassment. To his surprise, Timmett apparently sharing his fury and shouted loudly, "She is Winterfell's daughter and speaks with respect. I, Timmett, asked her to speak, and you _will_  listen to her."

Setting her shoulders, Sansa continued, undeterred by their behavior. "Thank you for patiently hearing me, Timmett, son of Timmett. This is most unseemly to relate. Since you and your men are apparently well acquainted with Tyrion, I am sure it comes as no surprise that he was, in fact, living with her in the way of husband and wife before we were wedded."

"Humph, the half man threw you over for his whore, is that the way of it?"

"It was not his fault, I assure you. The Lannisters did not take either of our feelings into consideration when forcing the marriage. He regretted it just as much as I did, so much so in fact that we were never married in truth. When the septon in the Vale learned of his conduct, our marriage was annulled. Once we were both free to do as we wished, we parted ways. After a respectable amount of time I allowed Sandor Clegane to court my hand."

Timmett nodded gravely. "He has protected me and kept me safe. You see how fierce he is in battle and thus he won my hand. Your men challenged Sandor to prove his bravery according to your customs. I must say such was proven to me long before now. Chief Timmett, I hope you will agree he has most amply demonstrated it this day. His scars do not show the half the fearlessness of my husband, I promise you."

After several rather tense moments, Timmett declared Sandor free of guilt and commanded that the couple left in peace, much to the bewilderment of the clan.

Since then, he and the Little bird have been left to their own devices by the clans. After trading with a few clansmen from various tribes, Sandor has sought their company in hopes of learning the goings on north of the Wall. This past week he heard all of Westeros is teeming with sightings of the queen, now on the move traveling north with her fearsome dragons.

Turning off the trail leading toward their home, Sandor cannot help but smile at the prospect of seeing his wife after a week spent apart. He would never have left her if it had not been for the most recent addition to their home. A fortnight past, her sister's beastly direwolf showed up at the cabin and Sansa laughed and cried at the sight of the animal, hugging and welcoming her as though she was Arya herself. With the immense creature now a constant companion to his wife, Sandor feels it is safe enough leaving her tp search for food.

Despite the grave circumstances surrounding them, with Sansa by his side Sandor feels content for perhaps the first time in his life. Being with her has been a dream for the man, who is learning what it is to love and be loved in return for the first time in his life. In Sansa he has found affection, absolution, fulfillment and peace. At times Sandor can hardly accept this superlative new reality she has brought to his life.

Living with Elder brother on the Quiet Isle taught him to control his anger and to pray and believe in something greater than himself. But it is not religion, nor the gods that gives his life purpose: it is and forever will be Sansa alone who accomplishes that. Sandor knows he will do whatever it takes to see her happy and eventually restored to her ancestral home.

In her newfound sense of peace, Sansa grows even more beautiful and the man who once prided himself on caring for no one now finds himself growing more deeply in love with her. Sandor cannot help but feel proud of his treasured little bird, for every day she demonstrates the strength and resilience he saw within her in King's Landing, the qualities that drew him from the moment he first laid eyes on her.

Like a true creature of the north, his beloved wife is more relaxed and happy than he has ever seen her in their tiny snow-bound dwelling. Every day she bustles about, trying to make the sparse cabin into a comfortable home. He longs to return to her and the comfortable place she has made for them.

Occasionally Sandor brings home conveniences bartered from the clansmen for her: a tea kettle, lavender soaps, and a tub large enough for two, a rain barrel and water pump. Sansa is always excited and thanks him warmly, generously embracing and kissing him as though he brought her a precious jewel.

Smiling to himself, Sandor remembers the first time he teased her about it. Sansa responded by solemnly leading him over to their bed. "You have given me far more than you know, my husband. You are all I need to be happy," she whispered, placing her hand over his heart as she kissed him.

Today it has been eight moons since he came north for her. Sandor spent the past few years of his life regretting he did not love her and keep her safe in King's Landing but no longer; every day he vows anew he will do all he can to keep her safe and happy. When he left for the hunt, Sandor was determined to find a suitable gift for Sansa marking the occasion.

So far, nothing he came across had been what he had in mind for her until yesterday he found the perfect gift: at the junction leading back to the cabin, he discovered a small weirwood tree inexplicably sprouting out of the rocky slope on the Giant's Lance. When Sandor spotted the young sapling flourishing in the rocky terrain, he was amazed to see the living embodiment of the north thriving so far from home and out of its element in the Vale.

 _A fitting representation of the little bird,_ he thought to himself, and then and there Sandor knew he had to bring it back to Sansa. The clansmen all said he was crazy, that it was folly, that he'd have to climb out over a steep ledge to reach it. Cursing them all, Sandor did just that.  It took him half a day to dig it up, all the while the men jeered him. But Sandor paid them no mind. The promise of his beloved wife's happiness upon seeing the mystical symbol of the north was all the motivation he needed to persevere in his endeavor.

One of the clan elders carefully packed the roots in soft damp soil tied in burlap and prayed a blessing over the tree, saying the weirwood must have especially strong medicine to survive the rocky soil in the Vale. Sandor thought the demonstration was bloody ridiculous, but sure enough, the little sapling survived the week-long trek back to the cabin.

He no more than stables Stranger when his beautiful little bird greets him by running out into the snow in her stocking feet, leaping into his arms and covering his face and neck with kisses, much to his delight. Once inside, Sansa surprises him with new clothes she has made for him. Spread out on their bed are fur lined leather gloves, a great bear skin cloak, woolen tunics and enough smallclothes to last a lifetime.

"What's all this, lass?" Sandor asks gruffly, though secretly he is thrilled. No one has ever done such a thing for him and the labor of love each item represents nearly overwhelms him.

"Grouse all you want; I see that twinkle in your eye," Sansa laughs, tweaking his chin. "I made these for you because I love you. My beloved husband must have the best his little bird has to offer," she beams up at him before pointing out the detailed dogs she embroidered around the hem of his tunics and on the back of his cloak. "It has been eight moons since you returned to me. I want to take care of you the best way I know how, just as you take care of me."

Sansa is the only person ever to express such love and devotion for him, and her simple declaration leaves Sandor too moved to speak. So, instead of trying to put his emotions into words, he scoops her up in his arms and makes love to her the rest of the afternoon to show his gratitude.

"At last, all of my pricked fingers during my septa's sewing lessons have paid off," Sansa whispers with a smile, wrapping them in furs and cuddling close to him afterward.

When he awakens later that evening, Sansa is sitting on the hearth finishing up her cup on moon tea. When she turns around to throw the leaves into the fire he notices she has been crying. Immediately Sandor goes to her, settling her onto his lap.

"Tell me what troubles you, wife," he rasps softly, resting his chin on her hair.

"Nothing, my love," she answers sadly, forcing her mouth into a smile. "I am fine."

Tipping her chin up to him so she meets his gaze, Sandor then tenderly caresses her cheek. "No chirping, my little snow bird. What has brought tears to your lovely eyes this evening?"

"I am not troubled, dearest. It is that I am yearning to start our family. I long for the day I will no longer need this wretched tea," she whispers bitterly, scowling at the cup in her hands. "Sandor, I want our children, our family," she chokes out, finally giving way to her emotions and sobbing into his arms.

"So do I wife, more than you know," he murmurs low, pulling her to his chest and burying his face into her hair. "Our time is coming, love. It won't be long before we are back at Winterfell with a castle full of our pups."

With a sad smile, Sansa eventually nods, glancing around the cabin. "I want to bring our children here someday, Sandor. I want our sons and daughters to know this place. I want them to know how we loved and planned for them long before they were born."

"Aye, we'll bring them, love," he agrees, grinning at her sentimentality. "Come, look what I brought you."

Drying her eyes, Sansa yields to him, allowing him to wrap her in furs and carry her outside.

"Stay here, woman, and close your eyes," he growls menacingly as he seats her on a stump. His wife recognizes the mischievous tone in his voice and laughs even as she complies, eager to see what he is about.

When Sansa opens her eyes, there before her stands the young weirwood sapling, its unmistakable scarlet leaves radiant in the light of the cabin. "Oh, Sandor! Oh, my love, wherever did you find this?" Sansa whispers, raising her hand to tenderly touch its white limbs.

"On the north face of the Giant's Lance. You and this weirwood have a lot in common, lass. Creatures of the north, both of you, and managing to flourish even though you're out of your element here in the Vale."

Deeply moved, it is Sansa's turn to find herself at a loss for words by her husband's loving display of devotion. "It is the most beautiful gift I've ever been given," she whispers as she takes him into her arms and kisses him soundly. "I cannot believe you managed to free it of its soil without damaging the roots."

"Bloody near broke my neck trying to dig it up, too. One of the holy men said a prayer over it so it would survive the trip back. Thought we'd plant it here, maybe carve a face into it for prayers if you like. Then one day we'll return with our family, and we'll show our pups the tree and tell them we prayed for them here," he casually shrugs, all the while looking very pleased with himself.

"It is a most touching and beautiful idea, husband. Come, I must thank you properly for your gift, as you thanked me earlier," she softly replies, leading him inside with a naughty glimmer in her eye.

* * *

 _The dense smoke rising from the sulfur pits nearly obscures Castle Black from view,_ the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch grimly thinks as he anxiously awaits the queen's arrival. _She'll be lucky to even see us down here._ In the past two days the ever-present comet has turned blood red, its flaming tail nearly obscuring the blue sky overhead. The awesome display heralds the arrival of the Mother of Dragons and yet makes the men and Jon alike nervous.

"How will we know when the queen is close?" Samwell asks, nervously searching the sky for signs.

"Look up, maester-that bloody comet tells you she's close," Ser Jaremy remarks darkly. "Those White Walkers must know it, too. They fought harder than ever the last few weeks. Do you realize last night is the tenth consecutive night they have nearly overrun the castle?"

"You would ask that of _me_ , the man who orders his dead brothers burned every night? That smoke is filled with the ashes of what we have lost," Jon growls angrily, gesturing toward the smoldering column behind them. "Don't ever question what I comprehend about the war against the White Walkers again." Lack of sleep, constant fear and the heavy burden of leadership weighs heavily on the young man, whose only consolation is the knowledge that his sisters and brothers are safe.

Ghost suddenly sits up, searching the sky and baring his teeth. Suddenly the thunderous beating of wings envelopes the men, the ensuing gust of wind swirling snow and dirt around the assembled members of the Night's Watch. When the dust clears, Jon raises his eyes to find himself face to face with an enormous black and red dragon. The creature cautiously moves closer, all the while watching him with a superior intelligence that Jon finds both fascinating and unnerving.

"Hold fast, Drogon," a soft, feminine voice says, and Jon notices the small, beautiful silver-haired young woman gently tugging at the reins on the beast's back. _She is but a few years older than Sansa,_ Jon notes.

"Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, it is an honor to welcome you on your first visit to Castle Black." Jon signals the men, who kneel at his command.

A slight smile appears on the young queen's face as she peers down at him, pulling a luxuriant white lion skin cloak closer to her small form. Drogon dances sideways trying to move closer while still reined by his mistress. "That is very kind, Lord Commander Snow, it is a pleasure to meet you at last," Daenerys nods formally at him before eying her mount warily. "I understood Stannis Baratheon would also be present. Is he here?"

"Regretfully no, your Grace," Jon says tersely, his tone of annoyance noticed by the queen. "He is in council with his red priestess now and requested I give you his respects."

"He is with the red priestess-is she not the one who conjured a wraith to kill his brother?"

"Yes, your Grace, the very same."

"I have heard of her," Daenerys says flatly, rubbing Drogon's neck. "I shall attend to them later. I would like to introduce to you my beloved Drogon," she smiles, patting the beast on the flank.

Jon cautiously steps forward, nodding at the animal. Curiously, the beast slowly inches his way closer, his glowing red eyes fixed on the young commander. Soon he begins emanating a high-pitched chirping noise. The dragon's unusual behavior alarms Ghost, who responds by positioning himself between the fearsome creature and his master, all the while raising his fur, dipping his head and baring his teeth.

"Drogon, hold fast, I say," the queen says firmly, gently tugging the reigns once more.

Once the beast stops, she pats his neck and speaks softly to him, feeding him a large hunk of cooked meat. "Drogon, lower," she commands when he finishes, and at the sound of her words the dragon rolls on its side, allowing her to gracefully dismount the massive beast. Once freed of her, Drogon cautiously begins creeping closer to Jon once more, his behavior clearly puzzling the young queen.

"Lord Commander Snow, are you frightened of Drogon?" She asks, motioning for him to stand.

"Your Grace, a man with even the slightest sense would be respectfully apprehensive of your dragons," Jon says with a smile, rising to his feet. "He is both beautiful and fearsome to behold."

Frowning slightly, she nods, holding out her hand to him so he will approach. "Yes, he is, isn't he? Still, his behavior is most unusual. Generally he ignores others in my presence, unless he feels they are a threat. If such were the case, we would be in a very different situation now."

Drogon continues his chirping while nuzzling Daenerys' hand. "Perhaps he is merely excited by the new surroundings. I usually command him in High Valyrian and only recently starting using the Common tongue in preparation for coming here. Maybe he is a bit confused as well."

"Indeed or perhaps it is because it is the first time he has seen a direwolf," Jon offers, watching as Ghost hesitantly sniffs the huge beast.

Daenerys notices the direwolf's bravery as well and gives a small laugh, "Yes, perhaps that is the true reason after all. How fitting it is for our sigils to meet on the same day as us, Lord Commander Snow."

Suddenly the thundering of dragon wings surrounds them, sending snow and debris into the air once more.

Jon steps back while surveying the two dragons carefully. The first animal is deep leafy green in color, flecked with bronze and ridden by an older man with white hair. The other dragon is creamy white with golden scales and ridden by a muscular built young man with dark hair. Both beasts are smaller than Drogon and less cautious as well.

"Viserion, Rhaegal, hold fast," Daenerys calls out as the two ferocious beasts set down before the men. "Low," Daenerys commands, and obediently both dragons prostrate themselves in a similar fashion, allowing their respective riders to dismount.

"Lord Commander Snow, allow me to introduce Ser Barristan the Bold, riding my brave Viserion," she smiles, gesturing to the older man standing beside the green dragon. "And here is Gendry Waters, riding my fearless Rhaegal. He is also of House Baratheon, sharing a similar life situation as yourself."

 _Ser Barristan Selmy and a surviving Baratheon arrive with the queen? How is this possible? King Robert's bastards where all hunted down by Joffrey-or where they? And where is Tyrion Lannister?_   Jon's mind swims with questions at hearing the two names and Daenerys, seeming to read his thoughts, laughs outright. "Please, make yourselves acquainted."

"Ser Barristan, the pleasure is all mine, my lord. My father spoke of you as a man of honor and dignity," Jon manages, offering his hand to the older man.

"Jon, you do your father proud by preserving the Stark tradition of service in the Night's Watch," Ser Barristan bows before shaking his hand in return.

At the sound of Ser Barristan and Jon's voices, Viserion begins the same unusual chirping noise, submissively rolling onto his side. Cautiously Jon approaches him with an outstretched hand, and the dragon responds by nuzzling into him affectionately, his behavior both pleasing and stunning the young queen.

Pausing for a moment, Jon then turns to the young man, bowing low. "Gendry Waters, it is an honor to meet you. I look forward to making your acquaintance."

"Thank you Lord Commander Snow. Please, refer to me as Gendry," he says, heartily returning Jon's handshake. "I have rarely seen the dragons take to anyone as they have you, Lord Commander." Rhaegal chirps noisily as he surrounds the men, wrapping them both close in a circular embrace with his tail.

The queen smiles approvingly as she observes the interaction between men and dragons. "I am most pleased to see my dragons so taken with you. It does much to garner my trust. No doubt the unexpected arrival of these men puzzles you, Lord Commander Snow and rightly so; but rest assured all will be explained in due time. For now, I wish to survey the sites in which you have previously engaged the Others."

"Thank you, your Grace, you honor me with the offer of explanation. I would be glad to escort you to the latest battle site, which happens to be just on the other side of the castle wall. Men, raise the Gate."

"That is not necessary for us, Lord Commander," Daenerys replies. "Drogon, low," she commands, the dragon once more responds by rolling onto his side. "Won't you join us? It is much faster this way," the queen beckons with a smile. Though hesitant, Jon does not dare refuse her and guardedly climbs behind her on Drogon's back.

* * *

As the pair walk through Castle Black's battle-scarred courtyard, Jon points out areas of interest to the young queen, who gravely takes in the destruction surrounding her. "You must burn all your people who die at the hands of the Others?" She asks, and Jon senses a twinge of sadness in her voice.

"Yes, your Grace, it is an unfortunate necessity to prevent them from returning as wights. Even the animals must be burned."

"I see," she says softly, staring into the smoldering sulfur pit. "It is a terrible thing, to burn one's dead. It may surprise you to learn I also have done such. I burned my husband in a large pyre befitting the mighty khal he once was. It is from his fire our dragons were born. Drogon is named after him."

Jon nods, not sure how to respond to such a personal admission from the Queen on the Iron throne.

Turning to face him, Daenerys gazes into his eyes. "You are Jon Snow, bastard of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, former Warden of the north, is that correct?"

"Yes, that is correct, your Grace."

"And pray, who was your mother?"

"My mother died when I was very young. Forgive me but I do not remember ever hearing her given name, your Grace."

Frowning, the queen nods, narrowing her eyes at him. "And no one ever hinted as to who she might be or where your father met her?"

"I am afraid not. No one ever spoke of her."

"I see." Daenerys pauses. "You know, I once heard long ago that my brother Rhaegar was quite smitten with your aunt. Do you have any memory of her?"

Stunned, Jon stops dead in his tracks. "You speak of my aunt Lyanna, my father's sister. No, regretfully she passed into the afterlife before I was born."

Daenerys smiles and nods. "As did my brother Rhaegar, at the hands of Gendry's father. Have you not heard the story of the two of them, Jon Snow?"

"Y-yes I heard it as a bedtime story from one of our caregivers, who long since has passed into the afterlife. I wasn't sure if it was true," Jon stammers, unwilling to tell the queen all Old Nan said to him. "Should you desire to see Winterfell, I would be glad to escort you to her crypt. There is a statue bearing my aunt Lyanna's likeness marking her tomb."

"I would like that very much. Well, at least you can rest assured knowing there is some truth to your caregiver's tale, for I remember hearing as much from my brother Viserys."

"You are most kind for telling me, your Grace."

Noticing Jon's worried expression, Daenerys hesitantly pats his arm. "I am sure one day we will both learn the truth about each of our respective families' pasts. Are you quite alright?"

Jon nods absently, still overwhelmed by her words. "Oh, I beg pardon, your Grace, I seem to have forgotten myself. I have not slept a night through in two weeks."

"Indeed. Forgive me but I am also quite tired. What say we both rest now? I will meet you in your solar in two hours."

"Yes, your Grace. I will have my men escort you as well as Ser Barristan and Ser Gendry to your respective quarters," Jon says, bowing low before her.

"I shall see you then," the queen replies, silently wondering to herself what is so familiar about the young Lord Commander as she makes her way to her rooms.


	18. The Battle of Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A distant rumbling reaches the battlement, the ground shaking and rattling the massive gates of the castle. Into the torchlight appears a massive horde of Others charging on their undead mounts. Giant white spiders clamor up the side of the castle walls, hissing as they fight to maintain their hold on the smooth stone masonry. Faintly the sound of the dreaded three blasts indicating the castle is under attack resounds above the din.

Later that night the temperature suddenly plunges, the  peculiar biting cold alarming the Lord Commander as he watches the moon rises over the Wall. The change brought Jon to the battlements and the young man anxiously surveys the horizon with trepidation. Ghost whines softly beside him, one of the few times Jon has ever heard the massive direwolf utter a sound.

Many times the Lord Commander has pondered how it is that he and Sansa intuitively recognize the unnaturalness of the change that precludes the arrival of the Others. Since that fateful night she and Sandor where attacked three moons ago, he has been most grateful this Stark family trait gives him an advantage in ascertaining the timing of their attacks.

Stannis Baratheon has been at Castle Black since the late afternoon to add his experienced army to the fortifications of the Night's Watch. So far he has managed to avoid the queen. His stubbornly dismissive air has Jon puzzled and more than a little worried.

When he explained that one of King Robert's sons survived Joffrey's genocide and accompanied the Queen's retinue, Stannis remained aloof before coldly rejecting being introduced to Gendry.

With so little of his own family left, Jon believed the man would put aside his prejudices and gladly go to his brother's son. Sadly, such was not the case. Regretfully Jon took it upon himself to tell Gendry his uncle did not wish to see him. The young man swallowed hard and nodded, and Jon squeezed his shoulder understandingly. "It is his loss, you know," Gendry managed before turning to leave the readiroom.

Jon despises Stannis Baratheon and cannot wait for his departure from Winterfell. The only notable piece of information Stannis disclosed came from Melisandre: the Others apparently serve a deity called the Great Other. He is the god of darkness, ice and death who is locked in eternal warfare with R'hllor, the god of light, fire and life. Jon isn't sure what to think of this information and chalks it up to yet another of their unusual fanatical beliefs.

Overlooking the wooded area of White Tree, Jon squints into the deep shadows cast by the burning torchlight for movement. _Waiting is the worst part,_ he sighs to himself, knowing it will only be a matter of time before the Others attack. His mind returns to Sansa and Sandor. The young man finds he painfully misses his little sister and her husband. _With any luck the campaign will be over soon and they will back home in Winterfell where they belong._

As the Lord Commander stands watch with the other men, he mulls over his earlier meeting with the queen and her envoys. She has asked of him an extraordinary thing and though he agreed, it is not without reservation.

So far, he has found Daenerys is straightforward, determined, loyal, quick with a smile and very beautiful, although Jon is fully aware that as a true Targaryen she could turn ruthless at any moment.

Ser Jaremy Rikker, Rast and many others have informed the Lord Commander about the way the young queen deals with traitors. Looking down into the courtyard, he beholds Drogon nuzzling into Dany's hair as she softly speaks to him. Judging by the size of the black dragon, Jon is certain the rumors are true and the traitors have been numerous indeed.

"Lord Commander Snow," she smiled graciously as she entered the solar with Ser Barristan and Gendry on her heels, the late afternoon light giving her silver hair a luminous quality. "Forgive me, but would you mind if I called you Jon?"

 _Would it matter if I did?_   Jon thought briefly but the young man only smiled and shook his head. _Perhaps she is trying to charm me into submission_. "Not at all, your Grace."

"And it would please me greatly if you dispensed with the formalities and called me Dany, as my closest friends do."

"It would be my honor," the Lord Commander smiled, bowing to her. Ser Barristan nod approvingly. Jon never expected to meet the man his father often called one of the greatest fighters the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen. Though his hair and beard are as white as snow, Jon noticed he is robust and vigorous with alert, piercing eyes.

Standing in his solar surveying the beautiful and diminutive queen with him, another saying his father attributed to Ser Barristan came to mind: _"Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin and every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land."_

 _I guess Barristan the Bold feels confident in her sanity enough to continue in her service_ , Jon thinks with a measure of relief. Three dragons in the possession of a mad woman is not a situation Jon wishes to encounter during her visit.

"Good. Well, then, is there anything you wish to discuss before we get down to business at hand?" Dany asked with a whisper of a smile on her face. Detecting his hesitance, she reassuringly added, "You may ask me any manner of question, Jon Snow."

Pursing his lips, Jon glanced between the queen, Gendry and Ser Barristan. "That is most gracious. Forgive me but how is it that Ser Barristan and Gendry are with you, your Grace? It is widely known you do not speak of Gendry's sire by name. I understand you prefer to refer to him only as the Usurper and of my own father as the Usurper's dog."

"Does that offend you? Even though you are his bastard and not a rightful heir?"

Setting his jaw, Jon looked at Gendry. "My feelings are unimportant on the matter. I am only a bastard, as you say." Gendry cast his eyes downward.

"I would disagree. To me it matters a great deal, for while bastards do not inherit their families possessions neither do they share in their guilt," Daenerys countered icily before turning her gaze toward Gendry, who cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"I do not kill innocent children for the sins of their fathers, Jon Snow. At one time I would have considered it, that much is true. But being a mother myself I realize-" she pauses and Jon perceived she was lost in thought. "At times, there are often difficult choices that need to be made," Dany finished softly.

"You mean you are the mother of dragons, correct?"

"Yes. I once carried my husband's child but sadly we lost our son, and my husband soon after."

"I am sorry," Jon said softly.

"Some think I cannot be the mother of such winged and ferocious creatures but if they are monsters, then so am I. I am the blood of the dragon, Jon Snow, and no ordinary woman. But I also bear the responsibility for the lives and property my children have taken. I would not punish others for such, not anymore." Briefly he sees a flicker of uncertainty in her face before the mask of detached reserve returns.

 _It cannot be easy training and controlling them, for all of her being the blood of the dragon_. Jon himself appreciates the struggle of training a large, willful and dangerous beast and cannot imagine how much more difficult it must be with three dragons.

"Of course, I could kill you and Gendry. It is after all well within my right as queen and would serve as justice for Aegon and Rhaenys." Dany murmurred, gauging his reaction to her words.

Folding his arms, Jon only raised his eyebrow. _She is testing me._

"However, Ser Barristan's counsel has been invaluable to me. It is he who made me aware that Ned Stark spoke for me when no one else would. Often the dead are powerful in the grave than they were in life. I prefer to do away with the former dealings of our families by building mutually beneficial relationships, not exacting retribution. As queen I allow the behavior of othersto determine which way the tide turns in such matters. I believe in giving them a choice."

Sighing, Jon regarded the young queen carefully, unsure of whether he should trust her. "What of my siblings? Would you extend them the same opportunity?"

"Tyrion explained to me the despicable manner in which his nephew and Cersei treated your sisters. Rest assured, the Usurper's queen paid _dearly_ for her treachery," Dany hissed coldly while running her fingernails along the weirwood desk. "Your sisters were merely pawns to that despicable creature. Once I would have held them accountable, regardless; but not now."

Jon tilted his head at her, struggling to decide if she truly meant her words. "But Ser Barristan has led you to change your views. I believe I understand you, your Grace."

"I appreciate your wariness of me in the matter of your family," Dany softly offered. "It is most understandable given our respective families' histories. I hope you will allow me to prove my sincerity by entrusting one of my children to _you_. _"_

 _What does she mean by that? She's going to give me a dragon? Maybe I judged her sanity too quickly,_ Jon worried while Daenerys turned to Gendry.

"What did you have in mind, your Grace?"

"Patience, Jon," she gave him a knowing smile. "Pray, where is Stannis Baratheon? Does the Usurper's brother mean to avoid my entire visit? This will not do."

"Your Grace, I can no longer excuse his behavior nor offer explanation to his whereabouts. He was told of this meeting. Where he is now, I cannot say."

"Cannot say? Or won't?" Dany asked, her violet eyes glittering with anger.

"I do not know where he is, your Grace. My men are searching for him at present." Jon replies with a slight bow.

Sighing, Dany shook her head. "I will not wait for him, Lord Commander-do not ask it."

"No, I would not ask you to do any such thing, your Grace."

"Good. It would seem you understand me better than Stannis Baratheon."

Ser Barristan stepped forward and bowed low. "Would you like me to bring him, my queen?"

"No, I have wasted enough time on that man, thank you," she said, setting her shoulders. "Let us begin. First, I want to engage the White Walkers as soon as may be. Their threat is peculiar in nature, given their ability to reanimate the dead. I feel strongly that they must be handled immediately."

"I couldn't agree more," Jon declared as he watched Gendry shift uncomfortably on his feet. "Our chance will come soon enough, perhaps even tonight. Do you expect their presence will cause any problems for your dragons?"

"No, though admittedly it is impossible to anticipate their behavior with certainty as large and willful as they are now. I am able to command them using High Valyrian words and even when I am not riding them, they are mostly obedient. Nevertheless, my wish is to move the fighting away from the castle and village, if possible."

"The ice fields lie due north of us," Jon smoothed out his map on his desk and Dany, Ser Barristan and Gendry moved in closer. "If your dragons successfully drive them back north, we may be able to hold them there for the final assault."

"Agreed, your Grace," Ser Barristan stated. "It would not be too difficult a thing, though riding the dragons may be necessary. You will need Gendry and me ready at a moment's notice."

Ser Jaremy Rikker looked over at Jon and then Samwell, clearly displeased. "Ser Jaremy, you look as though you would protest Ser Barristan's suggestion. I would hear your thoughts on the matter. What say you?" Daenerys offers patiently, though her lavender eyes flash with anger.

Annoyed, Jon glared at the knight to hold his tongue. Ser Jaramey spoke out. "Forgive me, your Grace. I may be speaking out of turn but the battle will not only be restricted to the ice fields with your dragons. The rangers and Baratheon troops will be needed to finish off any surviving White Walkers as well as secure the surrounding area of any of their  undead mounts and spiders."

"Of course-that goes without saying," Dany asserted archly, glancing at Ser Barristan. "You did not believe I thought to fight this battle on my own, did you?"

"Begging your pardon, your Grace, but I do believe the men would fight harder if they saw the Lord Commander in the lead position. The men here are sworn to the Night's Watch, not the Iron throne."

"Rikker, that is enough. Hold your tongue," Jon sharply reprimanded as Ser Barristan stepped forward drawing his sword. "If you think I will allow you to disrespect my queen, you think wrong, boy."

Danaerys narrowed her eyes and glared at Ser Jaramey. "No, Ser Barristan, please. Ser Jaremy speaks rightly. Most of these men took their vows as watchers on the Wall long before I came to rule Westeros." Looking down, she tapped her fingers lightly on the table in thought.

"Lord Snow's men respect him, of that I am certain. I have observed the men look at him in a similar way my husband's bloodriders viewed their khal," she answered, sadness clouding her face. After several moments of silence, Dany cleared her throat and straightened her back. "You believe you should ride one of my dragons into battle, Jon Snow. What say you?"

 _Me? Ride a bloody dragon alongside Ser Barristan and the queen?_ Jon's head reeled at the very idea. Blinking back his astonishment, he found himself slowly nodding after he observed Dany patiently awaiting his response with a faint smile on her lips.

"Yes, of course. Whatever you wish, your Grace."

Daenerys turned toward Gendry. "Do you have any objection to Lord Snow riding Rhaegal in your stead? Or perhaps you may ride with him?"

"Certainly not, your Grace," Gendry says, bowing slightly at her while awkwardly standing with his hands behind his back. Jon smiled at the young man, whose unease reminded him of himself at the same age. "I serve at your pleasure."

Relief spread across the young queen's face. Once more Jon was reminded that she is merely a few years older than Sansa. "Good, it is settled, then. Come, Jon, let us go see him. I fear there is not a moment to spare. Gendry, please join us. I want you to tell the Lord Commander all you know about my beloved Rhaegal."

"With pleasure, milady-oh forgive me, your Grace," Gendry smiled, embarrassed. Ser Barristan raised his eyebrow at the young man and shook his head.

"It is alright, Gendry. You are doing fine with your manners. I am most pleased with you, so you must not fret over such," Dany patted him on the arm before motioning for them to follow her.

Jon spent the rest of the day learning how to approach and command the dragon in High Valyrian. The phrasing and pronunciation came easily, the young man having overheard Sansa's lessons at Winterfell. The beast was quite submissive to him, surprising both Gendry and Dany alike. Rhaegal's relaxed behavior reassured Jon all the more.

When he finally gathered the courage to climb upon the massive creatures back, immediately the dragon danced and emitted a high-pitched noise, to which Drogon and Viserion quickly added their voices.

Dany quickly positioned herself behind him and ordered the dragon to flight. The experience seemed like his most frequent boyhood dream brought to life, though never did Jon expect to have the entire fate of Westeros resting on his shoulders.

Overall, he feels the lesson went well. Jon cannot shake the feeling that it is one thing to ride the creature on a quiet afternoon and quite another to command him in the freezing dead of night with an army of Others descending upon them.

Suddenly he is pulled out of his thoughts by Drogon bellowing out a frightening call. Ghost snarls, the fur raising on his hackles in response, surprising the Lord Commander. Dany and Ser Barristan hurry toward Jon as Rhaegal and Viserion respond with equally unnerving screeching that causes the nearby watchmen to cover their ears.

"Something is wrong, Jon. Drogon senses a threat and his brothers are responding to his aggression. Whatever it is, it must be immense-I have yet to see him in such a state. I have turned them loose."

Jon looks at her in shocked disbelief. "You turned them loose?"

"Do not worry. They will not leave me under such conditions nor will they harm the men. I have made sure they have been well fed since their arrival here." Danaerys says, nervously glancing around while Ser Barristan peers over the castle walls. "Can you see anything below?"

"No, my queen," Ser Barristan replies before catching the arm of a nearby ranger. "However, I trust that direwolf and the dragons more than my own eyesight in the black of night. Go retrieve Gendry-go now, man! Make haste!"

A distant rumbling reaches the battlement, the ground shaking and rattling the massive gates of the castle. Into the torchlight appears a massive horde of Others charging toward Castle Black on their undead mounts. "This is the largest army of White Walkers we have ever seen at one time," Jon says incredulously, looking at Ser Barristan before glancing over the edge of the battlement.

Giant white spiders clamor up the side of the castle walls, hissing as they fight to maintain their hold on the smooth stone masonry. The sound of the dreaded three blasts indicating the castle is under attack resounds above the din. "Everyone, to your positions!" Jon shouts loudly as Ghost snarles and dances beside him. Along the battlements, the line of archers alight their arrows. "Archers, loose!" Ser Rikker shouts, sending fire raining down upon the invaders while the second regimen loads their weapons.

Turning to Danaerys, Jon says, "The battle has come, your Grace!"

Horrified, Dany backs away from the edge of the castle wall. Gendry races up to the group, cautiously looking over the side before jerking his head back in horror at the sight of the giant spiders. "Seven hells," he mutters, turning toward Jon. "I never saw any spider that big, nor so many at once!"

The men stand awaiting instruction from the queen, who appears shaken. "My children were borne for this moment," Dany finally says low, struggling to maintain her authoritative bearing. "My dragons were destined for this, as was I. Ser Barristan, to the dragons. Jon Snow, I wish for Gendry to ride behind you so Rhaegal will be at ease."

"Suits me fine," Jon answers hoarsely while watching the dragons dance anxiously below in the courtyard. Raising his eyes to Dany, Drogon takes to flight and lands upon the top of the battlement walls, positioning himself between the inner wall and the invading army.

Understanding the beast's intent, Daenerys calls to Jon as she runs toward the wall nearest Drogon's position. "Call a retreat for any men below at once!"

"Your Grace, there are none of our men down there!" Rikker shouts in reply.

Drogon briefly turns his glowing red eyes toward the sound of Dany's voice and lets out a deafening roar before disgorging a torrent of dragonfire upon the undead creatures ascending the castle walls. A collective shriek briefly echoes among the raiders before the intense blast of flame reduces their bodies to ash, filling the night air with sulfuric clouds of smoke.

The remaining White Walkers quickly halt their attack as Drogon ascends to the highest point of Castle Black. Antagonistically flapping his massive wings, the huge black dragon unleashes another bone chilling roar, challenging the enemy. The frightening noise sends a collective shiver through the men while calling Viserion and Rhaegal to the rooftops of the battlements.

"Jon, you and Gendry go to Rhaegal! Ser Barristan, mount Viserion!" The queen shouts. Waving her arm at the black dragon, she calls in High Valyrian: "Drogon, to me!"

Rhaegal and Viserion submissively lower their massive bodies to allow their respective riders. Drogon roars once more and takes to flight, circling the perimeter of the castle walls and unleashing another massive stream of dragonfire upon the enemy before perching on the rooftop above Danaerys.

Unnerved by the dragon's display of power, Jon shakily commands Rhaegal to flight and Ser Barristan leads Viserion beside him, flying close in case of trouble. Below, another wave of Others ready their arrows at the dragons.

"Climb him a bit higher, milord," Gendry says close to Jon's ear as he sees Ser Barristan ascending nearby. "That's it. Those archers will never reach us."

"Call me Jon, Gendry," the Lord Commander nervously says, causing Gendry to smile broadly. "You are friends with my sister and now are my guide in flying your dragon. We can dispense with formalities."

"Aye that I am. Thank you, milord." Gendry nods and laughs again. "The black is quite a sight, isn't he?"

"He certainly is. Does riding such a creature ever get easier?"

"No one rides Drogon but the queen. It is said her dead husband was every bit as ferocious as the beast named for him. IIn time you'll learn the animal's moods and you won't feel quite so intimidated by it," Gendry says. "He'll learn yours as well and quicker than you'd think, too."

The fierce battle rages throughout the night with the Rangers and Stannis' men holding their positions while the dragons advance upon the army of Others, pushing them back on to the ice fields and driving them away from the forested areas.

Dragonfire illuminates the landscape. From his vantage point atop Rhaegal Jon grasps the staggering enormity of the host of White Walkers to which the dragons have laid waste. Miles of scorched black earth pockets the land and yet still more Others emerge from their hiding places, ready to join the battle.

The wights and Others appear as ants covering the ice fields, retreating from the three dragon's fiery onslaught. Gendry offers instruction behind him, telling him when to descend the dragon and call for dragonfire. After several hours, the animal appears to intuitively respond to him until it seems to Jon that he no more than thinks a command before the dragon executes it.

"See, didn't I tell you?" Gendry grins knowingly when Jon turns to look at him. "He knows you already!" Baffled, Jon briefly wonders at this before reminding himself there is no time for pondering in the midst of the campaign.

As dawn breaks over the horizon, the full extent of the battle is revealed by the emerging light of day. Immense swathes of scorched ground lead a frightening path toward the ice fields. Huge pools of melted water drain into the gaping holes left by the dragonfire.

Drogon has aggressively dominated the battle from the beginning and shows no signs of weariness, though the same cannot be said for Rhaegal and Viserion. Holding the last bastion of White Walkers against an ice shelf, Drogon roars out his fury while awaiting Danaerys' command.

Flying low toward Drogon's position, suddenly Rhaegal banks hard to the left, bellowing in agony. "An arrow has pierced his wing!" Shouts Gendry. "Set him down. I think he needs to rest a moment!"

"Rest? Here?" Jon calls. "No, we'll circle near Drogon."

"Viserion has been hit!" Ser Barristan shouts beside them. "Watch out for those archers!"

Rhaegal sharply dives to avoid the arrows, throwing Gendry and Jon from his back and sending both men sliding down a steep ice shelf. Scrambling, Gendry manages to grab hold of a rock jutting out near the edge. Slipping past him, Jon struggles to find purchase in the ice but to no avail. Quickly Ser Barristan comes to Gendry's aid, the young man hurriedly climbing on Viserion's back behind the knight.

Seeing the men's dire predicament, Dany deftly maneuvers Drogon toward Jon. By the time she reaches him, however, the Lord Commander drops over the crag. Falling into the deep snow bank below, Jon scrambles to his feet, causing Drogon to call out in distress. Shaken, Jon draws his battle-worn obsidian sword, only to be quickly overtaken by the last remaining White Walkers.

The Others surround him while their apparent leader dismounts and draws his own crystal weapon. Drogon lets out short bursts of flame to turn them away from Jon but the undead creatures have backed the young Lord Commander against the base of the crag. Slicing through those closest to him, Jon shouts in a rage and the Others quickly raise their weapons to strike. Parrying their blows, Jon can faintly hear Danaerys scream, "Great Stallion, help him! Drogo, hear my words! Help Jon!"

The huge black dragon lands nearest the Others with Viserion and Rhaegal following suit. Dany swiftly dismounts and shouts commands in Valyrian at the great beast. Catlike, Drogon advances and forces the rest of the Others and Jon against the base of the crevasse, snorting and blowing smoke at the enemy.

Enveloped in the choking sulfur haze, Jon continues slashing at the creatures but despite his struggle he soon is overcome. A large White Walker draws near with his crystal sword raised over his head, warily eyeing the Lord Commander and uttering words Jon does not understand. Rhaegal lets out a shriek in response to the attack.

"Jon!" Dany screams out, sinking to her knees. Drogon rushes toward him, dodging his head back and forth and snapping his massive jaws in an attempt to rescue the fallen young man.

Undeterred, the White Walker sharply brings his blade down toward Jon's head. Uttering a prayer to his father, Jon fixes his eyes on Drogon and as the great beast's intelligent molten eyes meet his own, he cries out with all his strength, "Dracarys!"

* * *

For three a days a great blizzard descended over the Vale. Sandor and Sansa remained snowbound while Stranger, Sugar and Nymeria shelter in the small barn connected by a wall on the far side of the cabin. On the first day of sunshine, Sandor spends the morning digging out a path while Nymeria eagerly bounds outside, occasionally covering Sansa and Sandor with sloppy kisses.

"You didn't feast on Stranger, did you, bitch?" Sandor chuckles while tossing Nymeria the frozen hind portion of mutton.

"Oh Sandor, how can you even joke about such a thing?" Sansa laughs from the barn while filling the horses' troughs with oats. "She would never do that!"

"The Seven hells she wouldn't!" Sandor rasps, scratching the direwolf under the chin until she flops over on her back. "She may act a cub but if she was left alone hungry with Stranger and Sugar you'd see a whole other side of your pet, believe that."

"Well, alright, maybe she would at that," she concedes, exiting the barn. "Isn't that the whole purpose of you adding the interior door so we could enter the barn through the cabin? So we could care for her?"

"No Little bird, the purpose was to be able to care for Stranger and Sugar, not shelter this vicious beast," he growlswith a smile, all the while rubbing said vicious beast's stomach. "He'd make a tasty treat for you, girl, but then I'd have to skin you."

"Sandor, you are awful!" Sansa shakes her head as she walks back inside the cabin with Sandor.

"You knew I was a black-hearted varmint before we married, lass and there's no taking it back now," he grunts with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, forcing her to kiss him while she laughs and feebly struggles to get away.

"Didn't you get enough the past three days?" Sansa blushes shyly, noticing the familiar hungry gleam in his eye. "Moontea or no, after that amount of lovemaking it will be a miracle if I am not with child."

"Would that be a bad thing?" Sandor asks, suddenly serious.

"No, of course not." Sansa says solemnly, drawing him into her arms. "It would be the best thing that has ever happened to me," Sansa sincerely replies, caressing the burned side of his face. "I have prayed for our family since the day of our wedding."

"Aye, I know you have, wife," he mutters low before kissing her soundly, running his hands through her long auburn hair. "I have wished for it, too."

Nymeria suddenly begins barking at the door as a sharp rap interrupts the couple. "Who the fuck could that be?" Sandor growls as he sets Sansa back on her feet.

"Sandor, we've been alone for three days," Sansa gently chides, straightening her hair and skirts.

"Not long enough, wife," he winks at her devilishly. "Whoever is out there, you'd better be ready to face a mean bitch of a direwolf and an even angrier Hound," Sandor snarls while unsheathing his shortsword.

"My lord, I bring a message from the Eyrie for your lady wife," a tremulous voice comes through the weirwood door. "We received a raven from Castle Black."

"Well, hand it over and be gone!" Sandor jerks open the door and barks at the young man.

"Sandor! Ser, please wait," Sansa says, hurrying outside and handing the page a jar of mulled cider. "Thank you so much for bringing the message," she smiles at the blushing young man.

"Off with you, boy, before I feed you to my direwolf," Sandor wickedly smirks while Nymeria nuzzles his hand for more meat.

Sansa opens the note and reads it as she walks back toward her husband. "Sandor, this is from Ser Barristan Selmy in service of Queen Daenerys. She says we must return to Castle Black at once."

"Aye, I served with him, in fact I've known the old sod most of my life. He's a decent enough fellow."

"High praise coming from you, husband," Sansa giggles softly.

"Why didn't your brother send it? Or Pod for that matter?"

"I do not know," Sansa whispers, raising her hand to her throat. "There is no mention of him anywhere in the letter," she adds, turning the paper over several times. "I thought perhaps a private note would be added at the end."

"We'd better make haste, wife," Sandor says, reaching around her waist and rubbing circles over her midsection.

"Do you think-" Sansa stops short, unable to put her worst fear into words.

"No, Little bird. If such was the case, that fat maester Sam would have sent it," he says casually, not wanting to convey his uneasiness to Sansa.

"Yes, you are right; I had not thought of that. Thank you, Sandor," she nervously smiles while searching his eyes.

"Come now," Sandor turns away from her to hide his worry. "Let's ready the place so we can leave first thing on the morrow; what say you?"

"Oh yes, I will be prepared to leave as soon as you are ready. Let us say prayers, Sandor, for Jon's safety." Sansa replies, taking him by the hand and leading him to the weirwood tree.


	19. Rebirth and New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her stories weren't fairy tales. It was the story of my family. Father kept me safe, not even telling Catelyn of my true parentage.  
> *  
> Sandor and Sansa finally arrive at the tiny but well kept inn. Sore and pale, Sansa gingerly stretches her limbs. "Rest here, wife," he says with a look of concern. "Are you ill?"
> 
> "No, husband, not ill," she answers with yet another mysterious smile.

* * *

"Father! Ygritte!" Jon whispers, expecting to draw his final breath at any moment. Drogon keeps his molten eyes fixed on the young man as he disgorges the torrent of flame upon them. Though it defies logic, he senses the intense heat will not hurt him. He has no idea how he knows such a thing. Briefly Jon wonders if he is in the afterlife already, if his father took him before there was any suffering. Surrendering himself wholly to the fire, Jon finds there is no pain in the heat, only a strange kind of comfort and belonging; he is one with the flame.

Embracing the wall of fire, he turns to see the Others at his side quickly reduced to ashes and yet amazingly, he lives. Over the roar of the flames Jon faintly hears Daenerys shouting in High Valyrian as she rushes to his side. Impervious to the dragonfire, her form is barely visible as the air itself seems to liquefy around them. Through the shimmering heat he watches Ser Barristan and Gendry backing away as the whisps of fire whirl and writhe around him, igniting his black bearskin cloak and clothing.

As the dragonfire intensifies Jon senses he is growing stronger, transforming into a new and fiercer man, scoured clean and reborn. _"Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born,"_ the old man's words echo in his ears while the flames lick at his flesh. In the distance he hears the howling of a direwolf. "Ghost," he cries out, before the world goes black.

Jon awakens shivering violently in the absence of fire. Drogon snuffles, nudging his hip with his snout. The beast grunts softly when Jon opens his eyes and pats him gently. "It's alright, boy," he mutters, stretching out his stiff limbs. At Jon's movement, Drogon roars loudly, flapping his wings.

Daenerys is beside him, her lovely face full of amazement. Startled, Jon sees she is nude and Ser Barristan quickly steps forward to cover her with his cloak. Viserion and Rhaegal stare down at him intently, emitting high pitched shrieks and flapping their massive wings when he moves to sit up, adding their voices to Drogon's call and filling the morning air with dragon song.

"Blood of my blood," Daenerys whispers as she crouches down next to him, carefully running her hands over his arms. Blinking, Jon quickly moves to cover his manhood, at once bashfully realizing he too is completely nude and sitting in a muddy pool of melted ice and ash.

Tears stream down Daenerys' face, the young woman seemingly unperturbed by their state of undress in the presence of so many men. "Ilyo and Ser Barristan had told me Rhaegar had a son with Lyanna but I never dared dream it was true. Against all odds the babe survived. The gods have seen fit to bring us together."

At her words Ser Barristan kneels before him and bows low. "The blood of the dragon," the knight states simply. "Child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, we meet at last." Watching the knight, Gendry quickly follows suit and bows before him, a slight smile on the young man's face.

"I-I am not a Targaryen, I am the bastard of Lord Eddard Stark," Jon frowns, rubbing his skin as if to ensure he is not dreaming. Suddenly the stories Old Nan shared with him run through his memory. _"One day Jon, you'll have the answers to your questions for the end of this tale lies within you, lad." Old Nan's words replay in his mind. Her stories weren't fairy tales. It was the story of my family. Father kept me safe, not even telling Catelyn of my true parentage._ Overwhelmed, Jon turns his head and vomits.

"Are you alright?" Dany quickly asks. "Ser Barristan, give him your canteen at once."

"He is in shock, Your Grace. When you realized you where a dragon, you had been raised with Viserys telling you the stories of your family. This is all very new to the Lord Commander here. He is both wolf and dragon."

"Are we dead?" Jon asks weakly, wiping his mouth.

Laughing, Dany shakes her head. "No, Jon, we are very much alive. The White Walkers have been exterminated. The Seven Kingdoms are safe at last."

"Are you certain we are not in the afterlife?" Jon asks again. He has heard of the Seven heavens but judging by their surroundings they appeared to still be north of the Wall. Looking down, his skin is covered in soot as is Daenerys, but they both are unharmed.

"I am most certain. Ser Barristan, Gendry and the rest of them men's presence confirms it, does it not? You have experienced an extraordinary thing. Jon, Ser Barristan knows of your true birth."

"You knew, Ser Barristan?" Jon asks, starting to rise while Gendry hurriedly hands him his cloak.

"Yes, your Grace. Your father and I knew after your mother died. We vowed to never tell anyone, not even Lady Catelyn. Your mother's dying wish was that you be kept safe from Robert Baratheon. Lord Eddard promised her he would. Why do you think he sent you to the Night's Watch when he made for King's Landing?"

Reeling, Jon staggers forward and Gendry rushes to his aid. "Easy, Your Grace," the young man says softly, staring at Jon intently. "Now neither of us are bastards anymore."

"Please just call me Jon, Gendry."

"Yes, Gendry, you are family, too, as is Ser Barristan. We are the last surviving members of our houses. We have made our own family, have we not?"

"Yes, my Queen," Gendry beams.

"Jon, you are the son of Lord Eddard's sister, Lyanna and my brother Rhaegar. You are no bastard. You need never need use the name "Snow" again," Daenerys says assuredly, taking him by the arm. "I will feed any man who dares call you such to Drogon-alive." Touching his cheek, she whispers, "You are the dragon's son. How do you feel?"

"I am-well, I am astonished, obviously, though Old Nan used to tell me tales of Lyanna and Rhaegar as a child that she never shared with the other children."

Laughing, Ser Barristan nods. "That wise old woman! Ned knew he would never be able to fool her. She never believed you were Ned's boy; you look too much like your mother."

"I-I must say I am in shock and yet I feel strong, too. It's hard to put into words. I feel almost-"

"Reborn?" Daenerys smiles understandingly. "I had the same experience when my dragons hatched. I sat among the ashes of my husband's funeral pyre all night, trying to process what had happened. And the gods gave me them," she smiles, gesturing to the dragons.

Laughing, tears of joy run down her cheeks. "You are the blood of old Valyria, too, Jon. My brother's son. I never dreamed I would find another Targaryen, let alone my nephew."

Smiling, Jon nods slowly. Where once he was a bastard, now he has more family than he ever imagined possible. "You are blood of my blood, Jon. You are a Targaryen and a Stark, the wolf and the dragon together. No doubt you are all the more powerful for it. We must call your siblings back to us at once!"

Dazed, he nods and turns to see the rest of the members of the Night's Watch and a host of Baratheon soldiers all staring incredulously at them. Podrick Payne and Samwell Tarly step forward and bow immediately before them.

"My good men, you prove yourselves wiser than the rest," Daenerys nods approvingly and rises to her feet. "I give each of you a place on my nephew's counsel for your loyalty."

Lifting her chin, she defiantly stares at the remaining men surrounding them. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons. Today you have witnessed the gods return the son of Rhaegar to me. Jon Snow is Snow no longer. His Grace is born of House Stark and House Targaryen, blood of my blood, reborn in ice and fire as prince of the Iron Throne. I command you to bow before him or face death."

At the sound of her voice Drogon whirls around to face the men, roaring out a warning and flapping his wings while Rhaegal and Viserion each take positions beside Dany and Jon. One and all the men kneel before them and satisfied, Daenerys nods approvingly.

Ghost races into the midst of the dragons toward Jon, whining and wagging his tail as he sniffs his master thoroughly. Curious, Drogon steps forward. "Drogon, hold fast. Ghost is brother to Jon and to you. The dragon and the wolf together," she pronounces with a smile.

Ser Barristan shouts, "Here, here! All hail Jon, the Targaryen prince of the Iron Throne!" Gendry, Podrick, Sam and the rest of the men add their voices to his as Daenerys holds her hand out to him. "Arise, Jon. Your people are eagerly offering their allegiance to you."

* * *

After praying before the flourishing weirwood tree, Sandor and Sansa take a moment to look over their cabin. "I will miss this place," Sansa whispers, reverently running her fingers over the face Sandor carved into the tree.

"We'll come back when winter is over, wife," he says, drawing her close in his arms.

The couple begins the journey out of the Vale with Nymeria in tow. Stranger and Sugar take to the daily routine with ease, carefully navigating the winding narrow mountain passes through the Vale.

The trip is long and arduous, taking them nearly double the amount of time they traveled into the Vale from White Harbor. Due to the increasingly heavy winter storms, after much discussion the couple decides to travel through the Vale to the Fingers before chartering a boat.

Nymeria routinely disappears at dusk and despite the apparent lack of game in the area returns with a fresh kill each night. "No one is going to let us in any inn along the way with this beast," Sandor mutters, earning a laugh from his wife.

"On the contrary, love, who will dare turn us away with such a pet?" She winks at him.

"Aye, good thing we brought you, bitch," Sandor says, scratching the direwolf's ears after she sets down a young deer at his feet. "A good companion you are, and earning your keep, at that. Without you we would starve at the rate your mistress is eating these days."

"Forgive me, love, but the fresh air seems to have increased my appetite," Sansa says with her mouth full, a small knowing smile playing across her lips.

"Don't apologize, wife. I like my women soft and rounded out," he grins, slapping her backside as she moves past him.

Later that evening, Sansa snuggles down under the soft cushions and furs Sandor has arranged for their bedding. "Before we board the ship, might we stop at an inn for a few days, husband? I am so very tired. I need to build up my strength before we head out to sea."

After closely regarding her a moment, he slowly nods and pulls her close. "Aye, I know of one near the water that will do nicely, lass," he agrees. "Crannogman and his wife run the place: Tierney's the name if I remember right. Had enough time on horseback, have you?"

"Yes," she smiles, her eyes sparkling merrily. Bending down to kiss her goodnight, Sandor briefly wonders at her expression before rolling over and falling asleep.

Three moons after leaving the cabin, Sandor and Sansa finally arrive at the tiny but well kept inn. Sore and pale, Sansa gingerly stretches her limbs after Sandor helps her down. "Rest here, wife," he says with a look of concern. "Are you ill?"

"No, husband, not ill," she answers with yet another mysterious smile.

The small inn is old but tidy. Sansa thinks it a lovely place after being on the road for so many weeks and longs to lie down on a real bed. Sandor raps on the bar several times until a small grizzled man comes out from behind the curtain.

"Give me the best room here, innkeep, with a featherbed if one is to be had. I want the largest tub you have brought up and filled, and a hot meal for the wife and I. Wine, if you have it, ale if you don't."

"I remember you, Clegane. You did right by us here. I've not forgotten. The wife, Milly, will be up direct with your meals and such."

"My love, what did you do for them?" Sansa whispers to him as the man hurries to ready their things.

"I chased some rowdy northern louts out of here that were bullying the old couple. Let 'em believe I'm the Hound back from the dead haunting the place."

Giggling Sansa's eyes twinkle with fun. "Truly? And it really worked?"

"You don't see of them buggering bastards in here, do you?" He growls, sipping his ale while he surveys the other patrons warily.

Once the couple finishes bathing, Sansa buries herself under the downy coverlets while Sandor sharpens his blade. A small knock on the door announces their meal. "Here you are, big man, and there's more if you want it," Milly says sharply, handing Sandor a large tray. "And I brought hot stones for your wife."

Pushing him aside, she hurries toward the bed. "Outta my way, man, I know how to set things right for your lady. Don't you fret none on that score."

Puzzled, Sandor frowns and steps aside to give the woman room as she bustles about Sansa, placing the hot under the covers at her feet. "Now isn't that nice, lass? It'll ease those pesky aches and pains. You'll sleep like a babe, too. You watch how you travel from now on, and take good care, you hear? All will be well, child, mark my words." The woman smiles, patting Sansa's legs beneath the covers.

"Yes, Milly thank you so very much for your kindness," Sansa smiles wanly.

"Now eat up. A tiny thing like you needs her strength for the burden you're carrying," the woman says suggestively, looking Sandor over with a raised eyebrow.

Laughing, Sansa hands her another coin and smiles. "Indeed. I will finish everything, you have my word. Oh, the food smells delicious."

"What the buggering hells was that about?" Sandor grouses as soon as Milly closes the door. Sitting on the bed beside his wife, worry etches his face as he looks at her intently. Shyly smiling, Sansa lifts her shift over her head, sits on the edge of the bed and beckons to him. "Come closer, my love."

Swallowing hard, Sandor's eyes widen as he takes in Sansa's rounded middle, wide hips and full breasts. He has not seen her fully unclothed since they left the cabin many moons back. "Sansa," he rasps low as she takes his large hand and rests it on the swell of her abdomen. "Are you-?"

"Sandor, our child has finally come to us, my love!" She laughs happily, tears filling her Tully blue eyes . Eagerly Sansa watches him and awaits her stunned husband's response.

Choking down his tears, Sandor can hardly catch his breath for the sudden surge of happiness in his heart. "Little bird," he finally breaths out, his face twitching into a large smile. "My beautiful Little bird."

Kneeling before her, Sandor wraps his arms around her waist and rests his cheek against her stomach, delicately running his hands over her body. "How long have you known, wife?"

"I suspected it when my appetite grew so large. I have been nauseous in the mornings and, well, you can see for yourself the changes in my body," she laughs, running her hands through his hair.

Reverently Sandor caresses and kisses her swollen belly and then each of her breasts. "Our first babe," he whispers in amazement against her skin. "Our family has come at last. Gods be good."

"You are not unhappy that the babe comes now and not after we reach Winterfell?"

"Seven hells, no," he growls softly, and Sansa feels his warm tears falling on her skin. "We'll take our time heading north and rest as often as you wish. You only need say the word, lass. Whatever you and the pup want, it is yours."

"My love," she giggles softly, her tears of joy flowing freely. "Our dream has come true!"

"Aye, true enough, love. I have wanted this babe since the day we said our vows," Sandor rasps low, gently laying her back on the bed and tenderly covering her mouth with his own.

Moaning into his mouth, Sansa wraps her legs around him, drawing him closer to her. "I have hungered for you even more since I have been with child," she blushingly whispers.

"Have you, now?" Sandor rasps, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. Lying down beside her, he deepens the kiss, slowly moving his hand to the inside of her thigh. "Is this, uh, safe with the babe?"

"Yes," she answers, her voice heavy with desire. "My septa taught me it is safe until right before birth. Then we must wait until two moons after."

"Then let's not waste any time, wife," he growls, running his tongue over her breast and hitching her leg over his thigh.

The couple spend a week resting at the inn, sleeping, loving and eating their fill in preparation for the next portion of the journey. The rosy glow to Sansa's cheeks returns, her eyes sparkle and her figure seems to grow daily, leaving Sandor more in love with her than ever.

"Don't ride so far without stopping, lass. You must rest every two hours a'horseback," Milly whispers in her ear, handing her a lavender sachet. "Put this in your pillow at night and you'll have sweet dreams. It will ease the morning sickness, too. I let out your gowns so you should be fine for awhile yet."

"Thank you so much, Milly," Sansa smiles.

The passage to White Harbor costs the couple nearly double with Nymeria along. The dire wolf howls nearly the entire trip, upsetting the horses and men alike. After a week of smooth sailing they arrive in White Harbor. After sending a raven to Winterfell explaining the trip is taking longer than usual, Sandor rents a small house to give Sansa time to rest.

One crisp morning Sandor disappears for several hours, only to return dragging an older man by the collar into their solar. "I found you a maester, wife," he grunts, clearly pleased with himself. "You make sure she's fit to travel, old man. If not, we'll stay longer."

"Sandor, my goodness, I-," Sansa starts to protest but Sandor holds up his hand.

"No refusals, wife. Let the old man do his job. I paid him good coin and he's said to be good at his trade." Turning to the startled maester, he growls low, "See that you do it well, healer, or you won't live long enough to regret it."

"Sandor, really, I cannot believe you-" Sansa begins irritably before Sandor winks at her and leaves the room. Sighing, she shakes her head. "Please, ser, forgive my husband. This is-"

"Your first child?" The maester smiles knowingly. "I figured as much." After examining her thoroughly, the maester washes his hands. "I will call in your husband, now."

Puzzled, Sansa asks, "Is everything alright with the child?"

"Oh yes, my lady, yes indeed."

Sandor cautiously enters the room, eying Sansa closely. "What is it? How is Sansa? Is all well with the babe?"

Smiling broadly, the old maester chuckles to himself. "Your wife and children are in perfect health, Clegane. Strong as can be."

"Children? As in more than one babe?!" Sandor repeats loudly.

"Yes, your wife is carrying twins, I am certain of it. Strong and big for this period of the pregnancy, too. You are most fortunate."

Laughing incredulously Sansa wraps her arms around her equally shocked husband. "Twins? Oh my love, how wonderful! We don't have twins in the Stark family, at least none that I can recall. Do they run in the Cleganes?"

Rubbing his forehead, Sandor slowly nods. "Aye, come to think of it, they do at that." Drawing her close, Sandor clings to his wife. "Two babes. Gods be good, lass," he murmurs before rasping out his harsh laugh and happily lifting Sansa into his arms.


	20. Difficulties Arise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We best write Jon and the queen,” Sandor rasps low, helping her out of bed. “Before I do that, I’m going to find a healer from one of the nearby clans.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews and comments :) 
> 
> A special thanks to emmiemac for agreeing to sharing Sansa and Sandor's daughter's name from her lovely story: Everything to Lose.   
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/765233/chapters/1433621

* * *

Each and every day since learning she is carrying twins, Sansa has been stirred from sleep by the feel of Sandor’s rough cheek resting on her belly. In the early morning stillness she hears him rasping softly while gently caressing the swell of their unborn children with his calloused hands.

 _The former Hound is already a devoted father indeed,_ she smiles to herself. Quietly she watches her husband for several minutes before reaching down to run her hands through his long hair.

“Did I wake you, wife?” He rasps low, turning his head toward her.

“No, love, it is the babies who awakened me. They are quite restless this morning.”

“You feel them inside you?” Sandor incredulously asks, his eyes widening.

“Yes, my love,” she laughs softly, stroking his cheek. “They respond to the sound of your voice.”

“Hmph,” he mutters, turning away from her.

“I hear you whispering to them when you think I am asleep, my love,” Sansa needles him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “And I feel your breath against my skin.”

Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he shakes his head. “Those are old wives’ tales, Little bird. There’s no way the babes can hear us. You put too much stock in what the peasant women around here tell you. I’ll give them a tongue lashing for filling your head with such things.”

“Come here,” she sits up, placing his large hand low against her pelvic bone and guiding him toward the curve of her belly toward her hip.

“Sansa, what are you doing now? Trying to prove they are moving about in there? I don’t feel anything,” he growls low.

“You will in a moment,” she smiles up at him.

“Look, wife, you’re never going to make me believe such things, so-“ He jerks his hand away, closely examining the area where his hand formerly rested.

“I felt a movement, something-what is that?!” Sandor stammers, staring at her with all his might.

“That is your child saying good morning to his father,” Sansa laughs. “They both kick quite a bit when you speak, my love. When Mother was carrying Rickon Maester Luwin told us that babies know their parents voices even in the womb. We used to talk and sing to Rickon when she carried him. I wish our maester was here to see me through,” Sansa smiles sadly. “He was so good to Mother.”

“I’m sure he was, lass,” Sandor agrees, settling himself behind her and reaching around her midsection while resting his hands on the other side of her belly.

“He knew so many fascinating things about the unborn. He told me, Jon and Robb so many wonderful things when Mother was pregnant with Rickon.” Sansa sighs. “Remembering what he said, though, leads me to wonder if I am further along than the maester originally thought.”

“Do you now?” Sandor frowns, the corner of his mouth twitching. “How much further along?”

“Perhaps I am at seven and a half moons, going on how active they are.”

“How did you come to that time?” Sandor rasps in her ear and then places gentle kisses along the back of her neck.

“That was when you brought home the weirwood tree and we made love all afternoon, remember?” She sighs, reaching around to caress his neck. “And the rest of the night as well.”

“Aye, love, of course I remember,” he chuckles. Tilting her chin back to look at him, he asks, “Our _son_ hears me, you say? How would you know that one of the babes is a boy?”

Shrugging, she smiles softly at him. “I do not know for certain, it’s just…” she trails off with a smile.

“It’s just-what? Tell me,” Sandor nuzzles into her neck.

“Every night I dream of our son. He is a big strong lad and very tall with broad shoulders, a sharp nose and straight black hair just like you. He has my blue eyes.”

“You don’t say?” He smiles at her. “Have you thought of a name for him?”

“You should name our son. He is your heir,” Sansa smiles up at him.

Drawing a deep breath, he says low, “We should name him Edric.”

“Edric. Edric Clegane. I like it,” she nods. “May I ask why?”

“Elder brother’s given name is Edric. It was he who convinced me we could start over. He encouraged me to come to you and try again.” Sandor sniffs and clears his throat. “What of the other pup? You see that one, too?”

“Oh yes, I see her.”                                                 

“Her? We’re going to have a boy and a girl?”

“Yes, praise the gods, if we are to go strictly by my dreams.”

“A girl,” he grins. “What is she like?”

“A tall, small-boned girl with pale skin and dark red hair, even darker than mine. She has deep gray eyes just like her father,” she says, placing her hand over his resting at her waist. “She is very beautiful and refined and yet she enjoys riding horses with you.”

“If she has half the beauty of her mother then I’ll have my hands full with all the lads wanting her hand,” he smirks. “The one that can whip me in the training yard can have her with my blessing.”

“Sandor,” she chides gently.

“You should name her, wife. What say you?”

“Well, in my heart I already have,” she shyly looks at him. “I call her Catya.”

“That’s a fine name.” Grinning, his eyes grow large as he runs his hands over her belly. “She must like the name, too, lass. I felt another big one, like a kick.”

“Yes, so did I,” she winces, and at her words Sandor begins rubbing the spot gently. “Husband, I do not wish to complain, since you have already done so much for us on this trip,” Sansa begins hesitantly.

“Yes?” He says, tilting her face up to his. “Speak freely, Little bird.”

“It is just that, well, I am most uncomfortable. I do not relish the thought of traveling,” she sighs again, rubbing her belly and struggling to sit up. “My love, please would you help me? I need to visit the garderrobe and I cannot get up on my own.”

“We best write Jon and the queen,” Sandor rasps low, helping her out of bed. “Before I do that, I’m going to find a healer from one of the nearby clans.”

“Sandor, I don’t think-“

“No arguments, wife,” Sandor growls when she returns to the bedroom, kissing her cheek and leading her to the washbasin. “I helped Elder brother care for enough peasant women who were with child to know that you need someone to help you.”

After bathing and dressing, Sansa finds Sandor in the solar with a clan healer. “Look after her while I attend some business here,” he barks, showing him into the bedroom. “Leave the door open to the bedroom, you hear?”

“Yes of course.” When the healer finishes, he and Sansa return to the solar to find Sandor slumped over their writing table, rubbing his temples.

“Seven buggering hells,” he mutters, crumpling the parchment before him and tossing it into the growing fire.

When Sansa emerges from the bedroom, Sandor anxiously rises to his feet. “How is she?”

“Your wife is in excellent health, Sandor. However, she is right about the date-she is nearly at the eighth moon of being with child. They are both big for twins, and very active. The old gods have blessed you both.”

Sandor nods, a bit dazed.

“However, she needs to mind the swelling and something to relieve the back aches as well. You know how it is done?”

“Aye,” Sandor nods again.“I’ll find a tub for the wife to soak in after I’m through here. On the Quiet Isle I learned a bit of healing, you recall,” Sandor rasps thoughtfully. “We’ll add sea salt to it-that will help with the pain and swelling.”

“You need plenty of dandelion tea to draw it out as well,” the healer adds, handing Sansa a large jar. “I’ll check back at the weeks’ end.” Sandor hands the man a bag of coin and nods toward the door.

“Come here, lass,” he says, beckoning her to sit on his knee once the man is gone. “How are you feeling? Do you think any harm will come to you or the pups should the queen insist we travel?”

“Well, you heard the maester  and the healer: they both have said I am strong and the babies are healthy,” Sansa smiles up at him.

“Bugger that. Neither of them has ever carried a child, let alone two at once. I want to know how _you_ feel.”

“Husband, I feel quite well, considering my condition. I just tire much easier now,” Sansa says, absently rubbing her stomach. “And I am so off balance I need help getting out of bed and such. My back aches terribly by the end of the day.”

Setting her in the chair, Sandor bends down and examines each of her ankles.

“My legs have grown as large as yours,” she teases lightly.

“You’re holding a lot of water,” he comments, massaging her legs. “We need to fix that.” Sighing, he looks up at her. “Say the word, lass, and we’ll stay here until the pups come.”

“Well,” she begins uncertainly, “I would like to stay a bit longer but what of Jon and Daenerys?”

Caressing her cheek with his knuckle, his face turns serious. “Jon would not want you to risk yourself or the pups-not now or ever, wife.  You know that. And you best believe I wouldn’t give seven bloody hells even if he did,” he rasps low, placing his large hand on her belly. “I’ll see our family safe first, Little bird, and everyone else can bugger off. I’ll get that raven off at once.”

Laughing softly, Sansa leans against his cheek and nuzzles into his beard. “I know, Sandor, and I love you for it. Come to think of it, Daenerys was with child when her husband was wounded and she lost the baby. I think she will understand, dearest, don’t you?”

“Aye that she would, if she isn’t as crazy as the rest of the Targaryens.”

“Shall I write it for you, love?  I was trained by my lady mother and septa on the proper way to address formal correspondence.”

“No, damn it, I’ll write it. News such as this should come from the father, don’t you think?

“Yes, indeed,” she smiles at him, glancing over at the fireplace. “But it’s a shame all those lesson should go to waste, not to mention such a great amount of parchment. Daenerys will never be the wiser, I promise you.”   

“I’m going to write that fucking message myself or be hanged, one,” he growls. “And bugger their fancy etiquette. That dragon queen lived among the Dothraki, Little bird, and from what I heard her dead husband makes me look like the Flowers Knight. I doubt she’ll be offended if I leave out some bloody word an arrogant high lord with a sword up his arse would use.”

Giggling, Sansa nods. “You are right, dearest. Please, word it however you like.”

* * *

“Queen Daenerys to see you, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan announces at the entryway.

“Yes, please show her in,” Jon says, rising from his chair, the title still new and unsettling to him.

“Jon,” Daenerys enters, her lavender eyes sparkling as her gaze falls on him. “I have just received the most wonderful news from Winterfell!”

“Truly? What is it?” He asks a bit apprehensively. In truth, Jon could use some good news.

The events of the past few months weigh heavily on the young man.  Repairing Castle Black and Winterfell has been a major undertaking, nearly overwhelming him.  Since the remaining members of the Baratheon army have bended the knee to Daenerys, they have assisted his men in the restoration work, which has lightened the burden. Still, it is a heavy load for him to bear without the support of the Stark side of his family.

So far, Jon is very uncomfortable in his new role as the Targaryen prince and heir to the Iron Throne, though Daenerys has given him a choice of duties and supports his decisions without question. The Lord Commander has had little time to ponder the shocking discovery that he is in fact both Stark and Targaryen. 

Even more disturbing, he receives regular updates from Winterfell about Melisandre’s constant prophecies declaring him being Azor Ahai reborn. With no immediate Stark family members nearby, he also has no one around him with which he feels free to discuss it.

As for his aunt, she is kind and beautiful and he finds she slowly is growing on him though he cannot say as of yet whether she will ever truly feel like family to him. He longs for the easy conversation and affection he has with Sansa, for Arya’s teasing and acceptance and the brotherly camaraderie and banter he will never again have with Robb. His brothers of the Night’s Watch all treat him with fearful regard now; in fact, it is only Ghost who still treats him as he did before the battle.

The sulfur pits burn day and night, reducing of the bodies of the fallen men and White Walkers alike to ash. Jon does not like giving his men the same end as the Others but feels he has no choice; the risk of returning as wights is too great.

After much discussion with Ser Barristan and the queen he decides to separate the Rangers from the Others during cremation. Daenerys suggests having a small service to honor them for their heroic sacrifice and he agrees, arranging for the memorial to take place after Sansa and Sandor return to Winterfell.

Stannis was found dead among the deceased the day following the battle, his body frozen beneath the Others he had slain, as hard and unyielding in death as he was in life. Ser Barristan personally brought the news of Stannis’ death to Shireen Baratheon and Davos Seaworth, who traveled to Winterfell from White Harbor to welcome Sansa and Sandor’s return a month past.

Stannis’ remains were  cremated separately from the rest of the men by Drogon himself.  The queen then preserved his ashes inside a dragonglass urn forged from the sandy shale on which Jon made his last stand and smelted by Drogon’s dragon fire.

He and Daenerys are due to receive their guests later in the afternoon. “Here, Jon, read this! It is the best kind of news.” She beams, handing him the message a raven from Winterfell brought.

“It is from my goodbrother,” Jon says, surprised. Laughing, his eyes grow wide as he reads the contents. “It is about my sister, Sansa. By the old gods, she’s having twins?!”

Tears sting his eyes, not for the first time since learning he has more family. “Twins? Imagine that!” He beams. “Sansa will make an excellent mother; she is so very kind and patient.”

Smiling, Daenerys nods. “It is just wonderful to see our family expanding. I cannot wait to meet your brothers and sisters, Jon.”

Frowning, he turns the page over. “Sandor is requesting permission to delay their return. They are in White Harbor at present.” Jon says tentatively, glancing at the queen.

“Of course, Jon. I would not press your sister to come sooner than she is able. I remember how difficult it was to travel when I was carrying Rhaego,” she smiles sadly, unconsciously running her hand over her stomach at the memory. “The children’s safety must come first. Please, offer my congratulations and tell her Winterfell will be ready to receive her and her children as soon as may be.”

“Forgive me, but at the rate things are progressing, Winterfell will be nowhere near ready for them,” Jon says, shaking his head. “Without Stannis, there is no one to oversee the work on site at present.”

“We will go as soon as matters are finished here,” she says after some minutes of thought. “Gendry, I wish you to travel to Winterfell at first light. I will send papers with you releasing treasury coin for the repairs. You will oversee the work.”

“Yes, my queen. I would like that very much,” the young man smiles and Ser Barristan nods proudly at him.

“I am sure your friend Arya will be most grateful that you took the lead in repairing her family home,” Dany responds with a smile. “For this service you are rendering I will grant any request.”

Gendry pauses a moment, looking at Jon. “I would ask His Grace for permission to court his sister Arya to wed, should she be willing,” he answers nervously.

“You want to wed _Arya_?” Jon asks in disbelief. He cannot imagine his scruffy little sister as a woman grown, let alone desiring a husband. _She would kill me if she thought I agreed to marry her off without her consent._

“It has been a long time since we traveled together, your Grace, but I have never forgotten her. We were a family, of sorts. She said we were a pack, that she could be my family and I would like to see what may come of it-with your permission of course.”

 _They were a pack-yes, that sounds like Arya,_ Jon thinks with a smile, remembering the day he gave her Needle.

“What say you, Jon? Is that agreeable?” Daenerys asks quietly.

“If she is willing, then yes, certainly,” Jon shakes his hand. “I must warn you, Gendry, she is most willful.”

“Yes, I know,” Gendry laughs softly. “But there is no other woman like her.”

Jon nods in assent, recalling he felt the same way about Ygritte. “We’ll see what she says when she arrives at Winterfell-it should be any day now, as a matter of fact.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“You are free to go, Gendry,” Daenerys nods with a gentle smile.

After they finish speaking to him, Podrick brings word that Melisandre has traveled to Castle Black with the Onion knight and Shireen Baratheon. The queen agrees to meet with them after the noon meal in the main courtyard with Jon, the Night’s Watch and the surviving Baratheon soldiers in attendance.

“I will see the red priestess first,” Daenerys says to Ser Barristan with a nod.”Keep the young princess away until I call for her, please.”

“You will allow her to continue being a princess?”

“Yes, of course. I will speak to her first to see her mind frame but if she is agreeable I will certainly offer it to her.”

Watching the queen warily, Jon is most uncomfortable at his place beside her on the dais and is even more unsettled over her demeanor. She changed into her Dothraki clothing and the immense pelt of a white lion, looking every bit the queen.

The young woman wears an emotionless, commanding expression, narrowing her eyes as the red priestess walks the path through the soldiers toward them. “I do not like her,” she says low.

“Neither do I,” Jon says. “One of the servants told me she stated to my goodbrother Sandor that death by fire is the purest death, even after seeing his scars. My sister was most upset.”

“I can just imagine, poor Sansa. That was cruel,” Daenerys hisses. “This red priestess will pay for it.”

Ser Barristan exchanges glances with the queen as they approach her and Daenerys motions for them to draw closer.  

Gendry announces, “She wishes me to introduce her as Melisandre of Assai, the red priestess of R’hllor, spiritual advisor to the one true king, Stannis Baratheon.”

Jon watches the queen set her jaw and nod, surveying the woman before her.

“Melissandre of Assai, you are in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms and Queen on the Iron Throne, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.”

“Kneel.” She commands as Melisandre draws close.

The priestess looks around her cautiously and bows her head. “You Grace, I am honored you would see me.”

“Are you?” Dany asks suspiciously. “You have delayed in receiving me. Why should I extend such a courtesy to you  is truthfully beyond me. If you had not traveled with the princess I would not have even considered it.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Pray, where are your dragons?”

“I did not want them to frighten the young princess Shireen and so I freed them to hunt this afternoon. Is that why you requested to speak with me?” Raising her eyebrow, she adds archly, “If you wanted to see them you should have been present for my arrival. Kneel.”

Ser Barristan and Gendry step forward with swords drawn.

Sensing Jon’s discomfort, Daenerys turns and asks, “Do you wish to hear her?”

“Yes, your Grace, I would like to hear her out, if it pleases you.” He says nervously. Drogon, Rhaegol and Viserion circle overhead, casting long shadows over the courtyard, and Jon knows the red priestess’ behavior does not bode well.

“Indeed nephew. What pleases you, pleases me,” she smiles softly at him before turning her hardened glare back on Melisandre.

“Why did you request an audience with Queen Daenerys, my lady?”

“I came only to bear witness to R’hllor’s message to her.” Turning to Daenerys, she says, “I do not fear a death by fire, your Grace. Stannis was R’hllor’s choice to rule Westeros and his cooperation with you lead to his death. The red god takes what is his and he demands a life for a life. You owe him your own life for leading his chosen one astray.”

The sky darkens over the dais as Drogon drops low and circles above, staring intently at the queen as he passes over them. “I don’t think that is a wise demand, my lady,” Jon begins, noticing the Daenerys’ hardened expression and grasping that it is only a matter of time before Drogon senses her agitation. “Would not her ability to withstand fire-“

“ _Our_ ability to withstand fire, dear nephew,” Daenerys gently corrects him, glaring at the priestess. Drogon circles once more before landing nearby, snorting smoke and then moving cautiously toward Daenerys and Jon.

“Yes, forgive me. Allow me to rephrase my statement: would not _our_ family’s ability to withstand fire be seen as a blessing from the god of fire himself?” Jon asks. “It seems logical to me that since the dragons breathe fire, they would be rather highly favored in your worship.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ser Barristan and Gendry warily look at each other.

Melisandre watches the dragon closely. “Your northern reasoning and gift of talk does not change the fact that R’hllor will not tolerate Daenerys Targaryen on the Iron Throne. Her course is not to be borne, Jon Snow. She has the madness of her forefathers in abundance, bred through centuries of unnatural unions within her own family line. Her possession of those unholy beasts does not change that.”

Rhaegol lands nearby and slowly approaches Jon’s side of the dais beside Drogon.

“You will not speak to me of what is natural and what is not,” Daenerys answers. “You birthed a smoke wraith to kill your king’s brother and thus subvert his claim to the Iron throne without war. King Renly was a gentle, kind man, or so I have been told.” Daenerys’ eyes glitter with anger. “Perhaps R’hllor punished Stannis for such an atrocity. None of the gods approve kinslaying, excepting that of a true monster. The fact that you were able to conjure such a creature to do the work for you is not proof of your god’s approval.”

“I mean to finish what my king started, your Grace,” Melisandre says softly. “I will secure the Iron throne for his heir.”

“Then we have nothing more to discuss.” Drogon moves behind Daenerys and Jon’s seat, roaring a deafening warning to the red priestess over their heads. The queen smiles and watches him a moment, then rises to stroke his neck.

Ser Barristan steps forward while Gendry quickly moves the assembled men away from the royal seat. Drogon moves still closer to Jon and Daenerys, wrapping his tail around them while glowering at the red priestess.

“Valar Morghulis, your Grace,” Melisandre bows, her eyes narrowing. Jon sees a fiery glow suddenly emitting from the palms of her hands.

 “Yes but we are not men,” Daenerys responds, patting Drogon and watching Melisandre’s hands.

“You speak Valyrian?” The red priestess asks, surprised.

“I am the blood of old Valyria. I _am_ the dragon’s daughter. Valyrian is my mother tongue,” the queen icily responds, all the while stroking Drogon’s neck.

“It was reported to me that while my nephew’s sister and goodbrother stayed at Winterfell, you told them death by fire is the purest death. Is that not so?”

“The man is scarred, he has tasted fire at the hands of the lord of light-“

“Yes,” Daenerys interrupts, her tone cold and calculated. “And yet knowing this you made such a statement to him,” she says casting her eyes to Jon. “And to His Grace’s sister as well-in her own home, no less.”

Drogon positions himself in front of the queen, snorting smoke and lowing deep in his throat.

Melisandre defiantly stands before Daenerys, raising her hands. “I do not fear death by fire. You will not hear me scream.”

Shrugging, Daenerys says, “I have heard such before. You may not fear death by fire, but death by dragonfire is another matter entirely,” she responds, standing. “Dracarys.”

Drogon and Rhaegol both unleash a torrent of dragonfire upon the red priestess, effectively putting an end to plans of rebellion once and for all.

 


	21. Two Dreams Become Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Husband, our family has finally come. I believe the gods breathed life into our dreams, my love.” Sansa whispers, kissing her husband soundly before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit off fluff to offset the RW blues.

* * *

Not long after the Others were destroyed, the first signs of the long awaited spring began emerging in Westeros. The days grew longer and the seemingly endless squall lines regularly blowing in from the bay became less frequent, giving the small garden Sandor planted the opportunity to give its yield.

He watches his beloved wife from the kitchen window, humming softly to herself as she gathers the few wildflowers beginning to blossom among the carefully sown rows of vegetables. She has been confined to bed but the weather was so fine that he helped her out into the bright garden earlier in the morning. Heavy with child, Sansa somehow manages to move with an air of grace that fascinates him.

Though it shames him like nothing to admit it, he desires her all the more as she nears the end of her pregnancy. Knowing that this sweet part of married life will soon be put aside for a while makes their coupling all the more precious to the man who has endured a lifetime devoid of love. Sandor cannot resist her and he takes Sansa as often as she will allow, always careful and slow.

The promise of their children fills him with hope; it is the first time he has known the feeling without fear of rejection, that this new life will not be false. In the past, hope has always come with want and pain. Even after he and Sansa were reunited in White Tree, fear was the unremitting dark companion to hope, and Sandor hardly dared allow it inside his heart.

The fear haunted him in White Tree, though he carefully hid it from Sansa in hopes she would learn to feel safe with him. The former Hound was no fool; he knew enough of game of thrones to understand the risks of staying north of the Wall with the little bird. They were in a desolate, dangerous place with the very real possibility that Stannis would insist on annulling their union. Sandor always felt that Stannis would eventually kill him and Jon and then marry Sansa to another northern lord to secure his claim to the throne with the north.

Once they wed, the glimmer of hope in Sandor’s heart began to take root against his will, always tarnished with the knowledge that the tide of fate could shift at any moment. In the darkness with Sansa lying beside him after they made love, the fear whispered to him, chasing any budding dreams of their future from the recesses of his mind.

Watching her body swell with the new lives their love has made imprinted a permanent place for hope in his mind. For the first time in his life, Sandor is learning to luxuriate in the promise of their future unimpeded by doubt.

For all the changes Sandor had made both on the Quiet Isle and with Sansa, he cannot shake the darkness that plagues him entirely. He fears losing Sansa and his children more than any fire, Gregor, or any foe he ever faced. Having seen far too many women die in childbed on the Quiet Isle, the excitement Sandor feels over the impending birth is tinged with dread. When the darkness becomes too heavy, he finds consolation in working at the nearby forge, honing his body and hammering out his fears on the malleable steel.

“Come dearest,” Sansa leads him by the hand and points toward the slopes of the Vale. “Just look at that!” The once snow covered rolling hills are now showing a light sprinkling of yellow and purple. “Arctic flowers! I did not think we would ever see the day they would come to the Vale.”

Watching his wife tuck a dogwood flower behind her ear, he chuckles low. “Pretty, very pretty,” Sandor comments, meaning her.

Blushing, Sansa smiles up at him. “I meant for you to notice the arctic lupine and mountain aven, love.”

“I can look you and the flowers together, lass,” he rasps into her ear while wrapping his arms around her middle. Resting his large hands on her belly, he feels a powerful spasm roll through her abdomen, buckling Sansa’s legs beneath her.

Holding her tight, he caresses her back. “I’ve got you.”

“Sandor!” She gasps. “The babies!”

“You’re alright now, little bird, you’re alright,” he consoles reassuringly, though the man is certain his heart will leap out of his chest from a sudden surge of anxiety. “It seems our children are on the way.”

“Oh, my love, it hurts!” Sansa grips his arms with all her might.

“Easy, wife, easy,” Sandor says, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the bed. “Take deep slow breaths.”

When she relaxes, he lays her down. “How long have you had these pains? I dare say that big one is not the first.”

“I-they started last night. I thought nothing of it; it was just as a cramp in my stomach. After all the food I ate, I thought something disagreed with me.”

His mouth twitches into a grin. “That’s how labor starts. Didn’t you ever see you mother go through it?”

“No, no Maester Luwin and Father stayed with her. We were not allowed near her rooms until Bran and Rickon were brought forth.”

“Well if you had, you would have heard her screech like a Lhazareen godswife, believe that,” Sandor chuckles.

“I most certainly will not believe any such thing!” Sansa stubbornly replies as he undresses her. “My septa taught us that true ladies bear their labor with dignity, and my mother was the finest lady I have ever known.”

“Raise your arms up. It’s time to get you out of that gown.” Moving quickly, Sandor slips a shift over her head and gathers old sheets he set aside. “Lady Catelyn was a fine lady, lass; nevertheless, you’re about to find out what a load of horseshit your septa was shoveling.”

“Sandor, how many times have you brought a child forth?” Sansa eyes her husband doubtfully, wondering why she never before thought to ask him such a question.

“More times than I can count, though Elder brother was always with me.” Sandor grunts, placing gauze and scissors on the table beside the bed.

Sansa nervously nods while her blue eyes closely follow his preparations.

“It’s not so different than when I helped my grandfather whelping pups as a boy.” He turns away from her, hoping she will not discern his overstatement. Laying his hand on her stomach, he frowns. “Time to move you to the birthing stool, I think.”

“Are you certain?” Noticing her worried expression, Sandor stops and sits down beside her.

”You’ll be alright, no need to worry. I’ll be here to help you and besides, your mother bore five children.” Caressing her waist, hips and thighs, he adds, “You have the body for childbirth, too.”

Blushing, she shakes her head at him with a laugh. “You are hopeless. I do hope I can be dignified like her.”

“Bloody hells, Sansa, shouting through your childbearing is no disgrace. Yell all you want-it isn’t called labor for nothing, and I don’t give a fuck what that buggering old windbag of a septa taught you.”

Doubling forward, she reaches for his hand. “Sandor, it’s happening again.”

It does not take long for her cries to draw the attention of their neighbors, and soon the couple has a midwife and a maester as well as many of their neighbors in their small parlor. Sandor tolerates the healers and permits them inside the bedroom, though the man refuses to allow anyone to tend to his wife other than himself.

After several hours and much exertion, Sansa gives birth and discovers her dream has come true, for her twins are indeed a boy with black hair and blue eyes quickly followed by a red-haired, gray eyed girl. 

With each of his newborn children tucked securely in his arms, Sandor uninhibitedly sheds tears of joy alongside his wife.

“Edric and Catya Clegane,” he rasps low, snuggling the babies down in between he and Sansa on the bed. “Gods be good, you are a fine sight to me and your mother.”

“Husband, our family has finally come. I believe the gods breathed life into our dreams, my love.” Sansa whispers, kissing her husband soundly before falling asleep.

* * *

The last holdouts from the Baratheon army surrender and pledge fealty to Daenerys and Jon. It is reported to the queen that upon hearing of Melisandre’s death, Selyse Baratheon’s mental outlook deteriorated sharply. Daenerys orders three maesters to care for her at Dragonstone and tells Jon she will name Davos Seaworth as Shireen Baratheon’s permanent guardian.

The young man recommends Daenerys share her intentions with the Onion knight as soon as possible. Understanding the child may be too afraid to approach her after what transpired with the red priestess, the queen waits a sennight and then decides to hold a private audience for Shireen inside her chambers.

When Jon enters the room, a table spread with a wide variety of food awaits him: cod cakes, black bread, pork pies, hen on the wall, and a large bowl full of something Jon cannot identify.

“It was very generous of you to approach the princess in this manner, Your Grace,” Jon says, taking her hand and bowing low.

“Jon, I know it is difficult for you to picture me as anything other than the Mother of Dragons, one who has laid waste to cities as well as the Others, but I hope in time you will come to see me as something more,” Daenerys says softly. “I do have a gentle heart, just as Ser Jorah once told me. I stoutly resisted such an inclination for a long time, but I have come to learn a queen can bring change not just through battle but by opening the way to understanding and healing.”

“It eases my mind to hear that,” Jon replies. “My sister Sansa shares your belief. She once related to me that when held in King’s Landing, she believed she would have no other choice than to become Joffrey’s queen. After observing Cersei, she was determined to win over the people. Sansa wanted them to love her rather than fear her.”

“A very wise young woman, and true to the nature of her brother I dare say,” Daenerys smiles, placing her hand on his. “I am most eager to meet her and your goodbrother as well. Their children should be coming soon, is that not so?”

“Yes, I am growing most impatient for them,” Jon admits.

The queen leans in close. “If she and Clegane are agreeable, I am of a mind to make Sansa warden of the North, Gendry warden of the Riverlands and Brynden Tully the warden of the Vale. It will serve to unite the kingdom and reinforce my determination for unanimity in the minds of the people. I would very much like you to consider this strategy and share your thoughts later.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Jon bows, secretly please by the idea.

“Your Grace, Ser Davos Seaworth and Princess Shireen Baratheon to see you.” Ser Barristan announces.

Jon opens the door to his solar and leads Samwell inside the chamber. “Your Grace, Maester  Tarly has something he wishes to say before you receive our guests.”

Knitting her brows, she nods. “I see. Samwell, please, feel free to speak openly of your concern.”

“As my queen is well aware, the princess was stricken with greyscale as an infant,” Samwell Tarly thoughtfully answers. “It is known to have a lasting effect on the appearance of its survivors. She is not contagious but her complexion is somewhat scarred, blackened and scaly. I thought you should be made aware of this beforehand. I did not want you to be startled when you see her.”

“That was most kind, Sam, but I will not be taken aback, I assure you. Ser Barristan, see them in, please.”

Davos Seaworth cautiously peers around the door before ushering in the young princess.

“Come in, please,” Daenerys softly calls. “Ser Davos, Princess Shireen, I am most pleased to meet you at last.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Davos bends the knee and Shireen curtsies in response. “The swords and loyalty of Houses Baratheon and Seaworth are yours.”

“Arise. You may approach,” she gestures to the table spread before them. “Sit.”

When Davos and Shireen are settled, Daenerys folds her hands. “Please be at your ease. I have no intention of taking away Princess Shireen’s title; now I shall name you princess of the Iron Throne. You will always have a place in my court. Would you like that?”

“Yes, very much my queen,” Shireen blushes. Davos shifts in his seat but smiles at the child.

“Ser Davos, I intend to reward your loyalty and service to Princess Shireen most handsomely. Whatever is needed to restore your family seat is yours.”

“That is most generous, my queen,” Davos bows, anxiously looking at Jon and Dany. “Would you-will you have the child live at King’s Landing?”

“Do not fret; I would not separate the two of you. I have heard of the great affection you share. It would be cruel.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. She is like a daughter to us, the wife and I. Lady Shireen taught me to read, too,” Davos offers, proudly patting the girl’s back. “She was a friend to me when I had no other.”

“I have heard much of your kindness and bravery, Princess,” Dany smiles. “Ser Davos, she will be entrusted to you until she comes of age, at which time I will allow her to choose her own residence. You may even come to stay in King’s Landing with me, if you so desire. How does that sound, Princess Shireen?”

Overwhelmed, she smiles and glances at Davos. “Did you hear the queen, my lady? She will let you stay with us until you’re grown. Then, you can choose where you want to live.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Queen Daenerys. That is most kind of you.” She clasps her hands together.

Filled with pity, Daenerys gazes upon the young girl’s face while quietly regarding the child.

Noticing the queen’s expression, Shireeen quietly adds, “Please forgive my appearance, my queen. I know that greyscale can be most distressing to behold.”

“I am the Mother of Dragons, Princess Shireen, and as far as I am concerned, scales are beautiful to look upon.”

“Truly?” The girl responds. “Oh, forgive me, my queen, I did not mean to speak out of turn.”

“There is no need to apologize, child. Yes, truly, you are lovely just as you are, inside and out. If anyone says differently then they will answer to me.”

Davos nods at Jon approvingly. The young man returns the gesture, all the while secretly wondering why Daenerys would do such a thing for Stannis Baratheon’s daughter.

Gesturing to the table, the queen says, “I thought it would be nice while we get to know each other to sample a few dishes the northerners enjoy. I am eager to try the foods my nephew grew up on. I also arranged for you to try my favorite Dothraki treat, too-honey spiced locusts.”

“My queen, do you really eat bugs?” Shireen giggles. Davos frowns at her, shaking his head.

“It is alright, Ser Davos. Yes, I do,” she says, popping one into her mouth. “These are my favorite. My husband Drogo was a great khal and had them made for me at our wedding feast. He was not convinced I enjoyed them until I ate at least ten.”

Trying not to flinch, Jon gingerly puts one in his mouth. Surprisingly he finds the delicacy quite tasty, sweet with a bit of crunch. “They are very good,” he exclaims before reaching for another.

“Princess, with your bravery I think you may have a bit of Targaryen in you. Will you prove me right and try one?” Daenerys’ eyes twinkle with fun as she offers Shireen the candy.

Davos smiles knowingly at the queen, confusing Jon. He cannot help but marvel watching his aunt. Her clear joy in speaking to the child reminds him that, for all her experience and bearing, she is still a very young woman.

Over the time they have become acquainted with one another, she has mentioned several times that her dragons are the only children she will ever have. Watching Daenerys interact with Shireen fills Jon with sadness, the man earnestly hoping that will not be her fate.

“Here, Ser Davos,” she says, placing a locust in his palm. “Let us both have one.”

“Well, what do you think?” Dany asks while slyly observing the pair.

“It’s good,” Shireen laughs and Davos nods in agreement.

“Princess, I have a bit of news that may well surprise you. Child, you are in fact related to Jon and I-you are at once Baratheon and Targaryen, as Jon is both Targaryen and Stark, and blood of my blood,” Daenerys continues seriously, offering her another locust.

“Really?” Shireen’s eyes widen as she turns to Davos.

“Yes, your grandfather Steffon Baratheon was the son of King Aerys II’s aunt Rhaelle, thus he was my father Aerys' first cousin. Your father Stannis was second cousin to me, and so you, Shireen, are my second cousin once removed. That makes you third cousin to Jon, whose mother was Lord Eddard Stark’s sister. You, too, are the blood of the dragon.”

Sitting bolt upright, Jon’s eyes dart between Ser Barristan and Davos. _They are all family? The Baratheons, the Starks and the Targaryens? Did my father know of this?_

“As you can see, it is a surprise to Jon as well,” Daenerys laughs.

“It is true,” Davos quietly turns to Shireen. “My lady, I have known for some time.”

“Oh, how wonderful! It is too good to be true. I have always, well, I have never had very many relatives, my queen.” The girl replies softly, casting her eyes downward. “I am an only child, you see, and grew up rather lonely.”

“Well, I have another surprise for you,” Daenerys says, nodding to Ser Barristan. “You have still more family here eager to meet you, and you need never feel lonely again.”

Gendry enters the room and smiles when he sees Shireen. “Gendry, meet your cousin Shireen. Shireen, this is your Uncle Robert’s son, Gendry.”

“How do you do, Princess Shireen,” Gendry says, bowing to her before offering his hand.

Blinking, Shireen stares at Davos questioningly. “It’s true, child; he is your cousin. Your Uncle Robert’s boy.”

“How is it that I have never heard of you, ser?” Shireen asks tearfully, visibly as overwhelmed as Jon feels. “I-I always thought I had no other Baratheon family besides the kings Joffrey and Tommen as well as their sister Myrcella.”

Davos glances between the queen and Jon. “Your uncle didn’t acknowledge him, my lady. He would not, as Gendry was born out of wedlock and surnamed Waters.”

“Oh, I see,” she pauses, seemingly lost in thought. “That is most unfortunate and I am sorry for it.” A familiar knot rises in Jon’s stomach as he observes her hesitance.

“Does that matter to you, my lady? Will you allow me in your company?” Gendry kneels before her. Gendry’s demeanor is agonizing for Jon to behold, the man recalling the same familiar self-doubt from a lifetime of being known, not as a man, but as a bastard.

It is also a painful reminder of when he was reunited with Sansa. Watching the young girl, he can only hope the outcome between Shireen and Gendry will be as positive and fulfilling as it has been between him and his beloved sister.

To his delight, Shireen takes Gendry by the hand. “No, I do not believe it matters at all, cousin Gendry. Everything is different now. Spring is returning and I do not wish to think about the past. Let us only think about how lucky we are to have found family in each other.”

Gendry grins and accepts the hand she offers. “I would like that very much. Have you seen the dragons yet?”

Smiling, she shakes her head. “No, well, not in person. I have seen them in my dreams.”

“Have you dreamt about my dragons, child?” Daenerys asks, casting a surprised look at Jon.

“Yes, indeed. In my dreams there is a black one, a green one and a pearl colored on as well.” Shrugging, she blushes. “I ought not to have mentioned it, forgive me. My mother said it is just a childish fancy.”

“Well, I believe it may be much more than that, Princess Shireen, as you have described my dragons perfectly. You know, having such dreams is a Targaryen family trait.”

“How very interesting, my queen,” Shireen whispers, her voice full over wonder.

“Would you like to meet them, my lady?” Gendry asks, offering his arm.

“Oh, yes, they would so like to meet another Targaryen. They always sense family,” Daenerys says, her voice betraying girlish excitement. “Is that not so, Jon?”

“Oh yes, it is true. They knew I was part Targaryen before the queen or I.” Jon grins. “They are most gentle with us.”

Beaming, she uncertainly glances at Davos, who stands up, smiles and nods reassuringly. “It is alright, Shireen, they will not hurt you. Let’s go meet the great beasts of your family sigil, child.”


	22. The Gathering of Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There is more, wife. Daenerys has made Jon her heir to the Iron throne and she wishes to make you Warden of the North together with your sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently in the hospital, so I will answer all comments once I am home :D

After the birth of the twins, Nymeria howls at the top of her voice until Sandor finally allows her inside. The huge direwolf immediately seeks out the babies, dancing and barking excitedly. "She knows her kin, love," Sandor grins, shaking his head at the sight. 

"The babies don't seem to fear her, for all the commotion," Sansa smiles wanly. When finally Nymeria settles down, she stubbornly positions herself beside their bed and refuses to leave.

In the weeks that follow, Sansa’s recovery is slow. Pale and weak, she does her best to care for her children from their bed despite Sandor’s objections.  Sandor brings in maesters and healers from the Vale to attend her but to no avail. 

When Jon learns of her illness, he summons Jojen Reed to the Wall, who promptly sends Crannogman healers to her aid and begins devotedly supplicating the old gods on her behalf. Sandor also sends for Elder brother, who makes the journey to care for her and spends a fortnight at her side. “It will take time, Sandor, but Lady Sansa is strong. Her milk is rich, and your children are thriving. I know it is folly to say this, but you must try to relax. Pray to the Seven to see her through, as you were taught.”

Grunting, Sandor nods, and though he does not admit it to Elder Brother, he has been entreating the Mother on behalf of his wife and children since he learned she was with child. The presence of the man who brought him back from the brink of death does much to bolster his spirits and Sandor finds a measure of comfort in the company of his teacher and healer.

“I do not remember my mother being so weak, husband,” Sansa tells him one day, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is such common, do you suppose? I have asked each of the healers, but no one will answer me.”

“No need to fret.  It was different for Lady Catelyn because she didn’t have twins, love, and ours are rather big at that. Your weakness comes from all the travel, lass,” Sandor reassures her, though deep in his heart he is plagued by a fear unlike any he has ever faced. Unwilling as he is to entrust her care to another after Elder brother leaves, Sandor spends the majority of his time tending to her and the babies. The neighbors take turns cooking his beloved wife as many meals as she will eat, always followed by alfalfa and barley teas to strengthen her. 

Too weak to balk at his orders, Sansa relents, staying in bed a full moon’s turn and a fortnight before trying to resume her activities. Some five months after the delivery, when Sandor is satisfied she is strong enough for the journey, he sells off their belongings and uses the money to build a wagon especially for trip to Winterfell.

“What have you done, my love?” Sansa laughs from the door. He looks up from his work  to see her balancing the chubby infants on each of her hips while watching him maneuver the rig into the courtyard. 

Sansa’s lovely skin is flushed pink and glowing in the morning sun and the luster has returned to her deep auburn hair.  Her figure has reverted back to her former slenderness, except that now she is fuller from nursing their children, and Sandor takes every opportunity to drink in the sight of her. “I’ve been taking care of our affairs before we leave, wife,” he grunts, his mouth pulling into a grin at the sight of his family. 

“So I see,” she whispers against his lips when he kisses her and the babies by turns. “I want you safe and secure, you and our babes.” Catya squirms in Sansa’s arms at the sound of his voice and Edric lets out a squeal of delight as Sandor strokes his head.

“They both want to go to their father, the little cubs,” Sansa smiles at him.

“My sweet little Catya babe, come to Papa. Here, give her to me, lass,”  Sandor says impatiently before lifting her in his arms, nuzzling against the downy nape of his daughter’s neck. 

Initially he was very cautious with his children, afraid they would be frightened at the sight of his scarred face and by his deep, rasping voice, but to his relief both children eagerly look for him and smile at the very sound of his voice. 

Catya coos and gurgles contentedly, snuggling against his bicep. “Missed your Father, did you, little one?” He rasps as softly as his voice will allow.

 Edric soon howls and holds out his arms to Sandor. “Come here, son, I’ve room for both of you.” The boy continues fussing until he too is in his Father’s arms nestled down beside Catya.

“You tuck them into your arm the way Robb would hold a ball to keep it away from Jon and Arya in their games of sport. If only Cersei and Joffrey could see you now,” Sansa laughs out loud. “The fearsome Hound with his children.”

“Fuck Cersei, and fuck that little inbred bastard. My only regret is that they didn’t taste my steel,” he growls low. Both of the babies eyes grow wide at the change in the sound of his voice, and so Sandor straightens himself and says quietly, “And fuck whoever said caring for children is woman’s work. I’m not embarrassed to look after our babes. Dogs take good care of their pups, wife.”

“Indeed they do, and I love you for it,” she says softly, amused to witness her husband temper his anger, if not his language, for the sake of their children. “What have you there?”

Sandor points toward the wagon with a grin. “Old Hagen and I built it for our journey. I stocked it well. There’s plenty of clothing, food and furs to keep us warm. I stuffed feathers into a large cotton sack for you and me, a small cradle for the babes. Hagen fashioned a leather cover for the wagon. It cost more but well worth it, you best believe.”

“Why did you and Hagen choose to cover it in leather, dearest? Would not wood have sufficed?”

“It’s warmer, love, and tanned to repel the weather. Sewed it myself, and Hagen lined the inside with sheepskin, too. I mean to see you all warm and safe the way there.”

“You are too good to me-forgive me, to _us_.” Sansa blinks away tears. “The gods have blessed me with such a thoughtful, caring husband. I cannot wait to see your handiwork.”

“Again with the chirping,” he teases, kissing her softly before gently lifting all three of them into the wagon. Ducking her head, Sansa peers around the inside. “What a clever father my children have! You have always thought of my safety, and you how you plan for Catya’s and Edric’s as well! The wagon is a wonderful idea, love,” Sansa nods with a smile. “Even with spring arriving, the weather is bound to be inclement at best further north.”

“Jon’s last raven said the snow storms still blow through regular, though they’re not as fierce as when you two were growing up. Spring is coming with the Others defeated, so he says.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Sansa replies softly, instinctively pulling her children closer to her breast. The mere mention of the White Walkers causes the young mother to fearfully recall their narrow escape.

“We’ll be safe, lass,” he murmurs low, caressing her chin between two large fingers. “You believe me?”

“How could I not? You have never lied to me,” Sansa gently runs her face against his beard. “When shall we leave?”

“I think day after tomorrow, wife. We’ll spend one more day in the home where our children were born.”

“I never would have taken you for sentimental, Sandor,” Sansa teases.

“Bugger that chirping, Little bird. We’ll go when you want, then,” He frowns, shaking his head at her. Edric grabs his finger and jams it into his mouth, gnawing contentedly. “You want your dinner, don’t you, son? Well, I can’t help you there; go on to your mother, lad,” Sandor whispers to him before handing him to Sansa.

“For all your growling, your eyes give you away, my love. They always twinkle when you are jesting, no matter how much of a scowl you wear.”

“Aye so I fear; living  with you has made me soft.”

“Is that so very bad?”

“No, lass,” he grunts, clearing his throat. “The meanest dog never bites the hand that pets him.” Turning serious, he holds out his hand to her. “Sansa, come sit down a moment. I’ve something to tell you, if Edric and Catya can manage to wait a moment.”

Fear flickers across her face as he leads her inside to the sofa in the solar. “What is it? Is everyone in the family safe and healthy?”

“Yes, wife; Jon, Arya, Rickon and Bran are all safe. I need you to  remember that as I speak, alright?”

“Alright,” Sansa nods, swallowing hard. 

“I promised Jon I would not say anything until the pups where brought and you were strong enough to bear it-what I have to say is bound to come as quite a shock to you. He wanted to tell you in person, but bugger that; you should hear such from your husband.” Taking a deep breath, he carefully begins, “When Jon and the queen were battling the White Walkers, your brother was overtaken by them.”

“No! Oh, gods, Sandor,” Sansa gasps, and at her reaction Edric squirms and begins fussing in her arms. 

“Give the lad to me, now,” Sandor says quietly, holding him in his arm next to Catya. “Sansa, remember what I said; Jon is alive and safe.”

Taking a deep breath, she nods slowly. “Yes, please go on; I can bear it.”

“Now, you know that if those undead sons of bitches had dealt a death blow to him, he would have come back as a wight. ”Sandor reaches out to hold Sansa’s hand. “The queen has a massive black beast, bigger than the other two dragons. She calls it Drogon, and he is the one she claims is Balerion the Black Dread reborn. You ever see the Targaryen dragon skulls in the Red Keep?”

Sansa shudders. “Oh, yes, Arya and I played hide and seek down in the cellar once and came upon them. They were huge and glittered like polished onyx and I shrieked when I saw them. One look was enough for me, but Arya was fascinated by them. To keep them there is a disgrace, Sandor. They were majestic beasts and their skulls should have been buried, not kept as trophies.”

“Well, Daenerys has trained those bloody fire breathing beasts of hers to understand Valyrian. When Jon thought he was finished, he called out the word for dragon fire, and that fucking black of hers roared a torrent of flame upon him,” Sandor says slowly, watching his wife closely.

Tears fill her eyes, and Sansa grips his hand tightly. “Yes?”

“And your brother didn’t burn,” Sandor says solemnly. “You understand what that means?”

Sansa sits in stunned silence before raising her hand to her mouth with a gasp. “It can only mean one thing, Sandor. Jon has Targaryen blood. There is no other explanation.”

Pausing, he gives her a moment to absorb his words. “The thing about your brother is, well, he’s not really your half-brother; he is your cousin. Jon is your Aunt Lyanna’s son.”

“My Aunt Lyanna’s son?” Sansa shakes her head. “No, that is not possible, my love; she died very young. She was never married.”

Sandor raises his eyebrow at her. “Babes don’t only come from married people, lass. Heard about what happened to her, did you?”

“Yes, my Father found her in Rhaegar Targaryen’s holdfast, the so-called Tower of Joy in the red mountains of Dorne.”

“Aye it was used as a hideout by the queen’s brother, and that is where he kept your Aunt Lyanna during Robert’s siege on the capital. She was dying in childbed, wife. Your Father took her son and raised him as his own. He didn’t want Robert or anyone to know of the child’s true parentage, fearing someone would kill the babe if they learned he was both Stark and Targaryen. Lord Eddard never even told your mother so as to keep Jon safe.”

“Dearest Jon! Gods be good-this is wholly unbelievable! How-how do you know all of this?” Sansa asks weakly, squeezing his hands while searching his eyes.

“Jon wrote and told me the details of the whole bloody story. He and the queen put two and two together, and Varys sent ravens filling in the rest. When Daenerys was very young she had heard her brother birthed a child with Lyanna from her warden, but the babe was never found. Everyone assumed Gregor killed it. When Daenerys came back to King’s Landing, she searched high and low for information about the lad, and went so far as to spare Varys as a reward for admitting to her that he knew Lord Eddard and she shared a nephew. The eunuch did not know whether the young man lived after Joffrey killed your Father.”

“I-I am speechless! Father and Varys both kept it a secret? Do you know if Arya and the boys know of it too?”

“Jon told all of them. Arya is at Winterfell now with your brothers and the queen.”

Sansa nods slowly and takes a deep breath.

“There is more, wife. Daenerys has made Jon her heir to the Iron throne, and she wishes to make you Warden of the North together with your sister.”

“She would have Arya and I serve as Wardens of the North? There has never been a woman placed in that capacity in the north that I have ever heard.” Sansa pauses, knitting her brows. “I am most surprised-this goes against tradition and I hardly doubt the Northern lords will submit to it.” Pausing, she adds, “Arya has already agreed to this?”

“Jon says she did, but only if you serve with her. Daenerys has given Arya free rein to do whatever is necessary to gain the cooperation of the liege lords of the North. Gods help us all with the wolf bitch running the show,” he chuckles. “Her first order of business will be removing my head, believe that. Won’t she be pissed when she learns that her little pet has taken a fancy to me?” Sandor barks out a harsh laugh, glancing over at Nymeria lounging on her back in front of the fireplace.

“What of Bran? I do not feel right about denying him his birthright. It is his in the sight of the old gods, and next in line of course is Rickon.”

“Bran is undergoing some kind of change, Jon says; bloody hells, I don’t claim to understand it, something to do with your Northern gods. Bran has told him the plan has the approval of the old gods your family worships. Your youngest brother is far too wild as of now to handle such a load and so far has resolutely turned down any rulership offered by the queen.”

 “I see,” Sansa says thoughtfully. “Poor Rickon, I feared all of this trauma would have a terrible effect on him.”

“He was not raised to serve like the rest of you Starks, with your duty and all. The simpleton your Father kept at Winterfell, the one taller than me, he kept Rickon and Bran safe with the help of some Wilding woman this entire time. They too have returned to Winterfell and Jon has given them a permanent place there as a reward for their loyalty.”

“Do you mean Hodor?” Sansa nearly shouts, her eyes widening before she bursts into laughter. “Gods bless him! Father and Old Nan must have guided him from the afterlife.”

“Jon says Rickon is doing better since he befriended Stannis’ girl, Shireen. He’s quite taken with her. Arya won’t let up on the lad about it, either.”

“Yes, that sounds like her,” Sansa laughs and shakes her head. “I guess Rickon is at the age now; in my mind he is still just a babe.” Wiping her eyes, she adds wistfully,  “It has been so long since I’ve seen them.”

Edric begins to cry, and Catya soon follows. “Tired of hearing your parents jaw away your mealtime, pups? They want their lunch, I’ll wager.”

“Oh, yes, it is past time to feed them,” Sansa says, unwrapping her gown and removing her corset.

“Seven hells but I love this part of motherhood, wife,” Sandor grins wickedly at her, unabashedly staring at her full breasts. “If only I could convince you to disrobe at a moment’s notice without a hungry babe in my way.”

Laughing, Sansa holds out her arms and settles Catya and Edric to each breast. “You are shameless, Sandor Clegane. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Can’t help myself, wife,” he snorts, bending down to kiss her. “You are more beautiful than ever now that you’re mother to our children, Little bird, though gods knows how such a thing is possible. I’ll never get my fill of you. If I have my way I’ll put another babe in you in a year hence.” 

Sansa blushes and rewards him with a brilliant smile. “I would like that very much.”

Turning serious, he sits beside her and stares into her eyes. “Sansa, the queen believes with your gift of speech and way with people, together with your experience in court and in the Vale, you will be most skilled at easing negotiations and such for her. If it comes to battle, the little hellion can take it from there,” he glances at her, gauging her reaction. “What say you, wife? Tell me truly, do you want to serve the queen as warden with your sister?”

“Sandor, this is all so overwhelming-I just had twins, for the Seven’s sake. I feel like I am just starting to learn how to be a proper mother to my children-how can I care for the needs of everyone in the North? Truthfully, I do not know if I even want such a responsibility,” Sansa says.  “My Father died trying to do his best for our people. I-I need time to digest everything, and time to pray to Father about it. Perhaps I will know better once we are back in Winterfell.” 

“Listen to me now, wife: I know it’s been bred into you to serve the North and you would make a fine warden, though it matters not to me what you decide. Just say the word, lass, and we’ll find a way to make it work-whether you want to serve with your sister or not. You have my word.”

“Thank you, my beloved,” Sansa whispers, tears pearling in the corners of her eyes. “Tell me truly, with all that has come about, is it not very dangerous for us to travel alone to Winterfell? There must be quite a few strongholds of resistance from both Stannis’ men as well as the Boltons along the way, not to mention the Ironborn.”

Drawing a deep breath, Sandor takes her hand once more. “When Daenerys heard you were with child, she dispatched her Unsullied and Yunkish armies to the north, sending them by ship into White Harbor before we arrived. They have soundly defeated all of the remaining insurgents together with Ser Jorah Mormont and his family, as well as the dragons. As for the Ironborn, your sister personally killed off all that was left of them with the man she travels with. Do you remember Syrio Forel, the Braavosi dancing master who your Father hired to teach her to use Needle?”

“Oh, yes, I thought he was killed when Father was taken captive, that day you came for me. He helped Arya escape, though he only had a wooden training sword.”

“That’s far more than the likes of him would need. The man escaped that day. Syrio was far too much for that toad Boros-it’s a wonder any of them survived. He knows some buggering magic that allows him to literally change his face, or so Jon says. Damned if I believe it until I see it. He followed her to the Wall for a bit and ended up at Harrenhal, where he took the name Jaqen Hgar. After she left me for dead, she headed to Braavos to find him and there he trained her in the arts of the Faceless Men.”

“She never told us any of this! Why would he do that for her?” Sansa asks cautiously.

“Don’t fret; he holds no lascivious ideas for her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Such devotion is part of their religion.”

“The Faceless men are a religion? I have heard of them long ago from Shae. She was from Lorath, and that is just east of Braavos. I recall now that she spoke tales of them,” she muses. 

“Syrio sent her to look after you, as he did Arya.”

“Truly? I cannot believe it-I would have never guessed such a thing! Wait, aren’t they assassins as well?”

“Aye, your handmaiden killed the one that found your moonblood easy enough.”

“My poor sister!” Sansa shakes her head sadly. “Is there no end to what our family has suffered?”

Chuckling, Sandor shakes his head. “Don’t pity her, wife; she can handle herself just fine. He did a good turn training the wolf bitch, that one.”

“Please do not call her such, dearest,” Sansa reproves. “She is your goodsister, after all.”

“Forgive me, an old habit,” he barks out a laugh. “She and I had quite a go at each other every day when we traveled together. I had to wrap her in a blanket and tie her to Stranger to get her to go along peacefully. The gods will punish me with Catya; she’ll take after her aunt, just wait and see.”

“Bite your tongue,” Sansa laughs at him. Sighing, she finally says, “The gods have truly acted on our behalf, though we did not realize it at the time. Considering all that has happened, I feel as though I should accept the wardenship.”

Grinning, he pats her leg. “I thought you’d say as much, wife.”

Smiling, she leans forward and kisses him. “Well, I suppose I must have faith the old gods and the new will help us bring the North back to its former distinction, just as it seems they have planned. With so many waiting for us to return to Winterfell, husband, I believe we should leave at first light, if it pleases you.”

Sandor kisses her again, before bending down and kissing the foreheads of each of their children. “All the way North as I traveled to you, I heard men and women-smallfolk and lords alike-tell me the wolves would come again. I suppose the time has come for it at last.”


	23. A Season of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I already told you that I dreamt you kissed me, and more,” she blushes. “But what I did not tell you was that I also saw our whole lives before us. I dreamt of our wedding and of our children, of our future home. I saw it all as plainly as I see you before me now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! I hope you enjoy the update :D

“Sandor,” Sansa giggles softly, running her hands through his hair.

Inside the tented wagon is warm and cozy, and Sandor is eager to prolong their intimacy for as long as possible before another long day of travel.

“Hmm?” He nuzzles in between her breasts, kissing her soft flesh there. He already took her twice during the night while the twins slept peacefully beside them but Sandor still hungers for his beautiful wife.

“The babies will awaken soon.” Sandor peeks through the curtain of hair that has fallen over his face to see his wife suggestively nod toward the down and fur covered cribs.

Sansa brushes the hair away and smiles at him. “And you know what that means.”

Undeterred, Sandor continues nibbling his way to her navel while ducking below the fox fur bedding. “I know, lass. I mean to enjoy you a bit more before the pups want breakfast.”

“I am hardly considered a lass. I am wedded, bedded and a mother of two besides,” Sansa nudges him playfully. “Made so by you.”

“You are at that,” he runs his finger along her cheekbone. “And a lovelier woman there never was. You are mine, and I’ll call you lass as long as I like, so bugger that nonsense.”

“Sandor!” Sansa gapes in surprise. “I can hardly believe such a tender sentiment came from your lips.”

“Bloody hells, woman,” Sandor groans low before sharply laughing. “It’s too fucking early for this. Let me be.”

Sansa giggles once more and then sighs contentedly.

“Give me this time,” His large hand firmly caresses the swell of her hip and thigh in smooth rhythmic strokes. “I’ll not have you to myself much longer.”

“You will always have me to yourself,” Sansa seriously replies, lifting his face to hers. “If you do not like living at Winterfell, Sandor, you only need say the word and we will move elsewhere. I swear it on the old gods and the new.”

“I am not speaking of living at the castle and you know it.” Scoffing, he raises up to face her. “You remember how taxing it was on your father, serving as Warden of the north.  Once you and your sister take over the wardenship, it will be no different; make no mistake. ”

Sansa thoughtfully nods. “You speak truly about the heavy responsibilities of the appointment. Nevertheless, Sandor, I am yours, as you are mine. I am determined that this position will not come between us or our family.”

Chuckling, he shakes his head and rolls out of bed. “As you say, wife.”

“You said that you wanted me to accept it,” Sansa anxiously follows him, pulling the furs around her shoulders. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No, Sansa, and damn it, don’t go putting words in my mouth,” he growls, pulling on his breeches. “I’ll miss it being just the four of us, that’s all, but I’m no fool. Come with me now.”

”But the babies-“

“We’re not going far. We’ll be able to hear them. Now come.”

After hastily throwing on her gown, Sansa wraps her cloak around her and steps out into the chill morning air. Nymeria snuffles at her skirts before lying down at the entrance of the wagon.

“See, lass, our children could hardly be safer with that wolf bitch standing guard,” he laughs. “You’d think they were her pups, the way she carries on.”

Leading her by the hand, Sandor helps her up onto a tall rock outcropping in a small clearing. “Look there, will you?”

As the morning mist slowly dissipates, Sansa laughs excitedly, squeezing his arm at the familiar shape on the horizon. “Winterfell! I had no idea we were so close!”

The burned side of Sandor’s mouth curls into a pleased smile. “Less than half a day’s ride and you’ll be home.”

Casting her eyes downward, Sansa folds her hands. “ _We_ will be home, love.”

“Aye, _we_ ,” he amends.

Suddenly crestfallen, she anxiously turns away, wringing the hem of her cloak in her hands.

“What is this now?” Sandor frowns, tipping her chin up to him.

“Nothing,” Sansa stammers. “I-it is nothing.”

Smirking, he stares into her face. “You’re afraid,” he announces decidedly.

“Do not jest. I am not.”

“Of course you are,” he grunts low. “You’re almost there and you’re afraid you won’t make it. The closer you get, the worse the fear gets.”

“Do not put words in my mouth, Sandor, I like it no better than you.” Sansa glowers at him. “You are mistaken, so leave it be.”

“No point hiding behind that face. I know fear when I see it. Seen it a lot.” Sandor places his arm around her shoulders. “It was the same when I reached Castle Black. I knew you were there. Inside those walls. So close, and yet I still could not reach you unless your brother agreed to let me pass through. It plagued me, haunted my dreams and waking hours alike, until I finally saw you.”

Sansa leans her head against his chest and wipes away the tears from her cheeks. “Why do you suppose it happens this way?”

“It comes from wanting too much, waiting too much, losing too much.”

“Yes,” she nods understandingly. “I am certain you are right about that, for I felt the same when I learned Jon turned you away. I was so very angry and afraid I had missed my chance to tell you of my feelings.”

“Were you now?”

“Very much so,” Sansa smiles up at him. “I dreamed of you, you know.”

“You said so once,” He raises his eyebrow at her. “But I’d hear it again. Go on; do tell.”

“I already told you that I dreamt you kissed me, and more,” she blushes. “But what I did not tell you was that I also saw our whole lives before us. I dreamt of our wedding and of our children, of our future home. I saw it all as plainly as I see you before me now.”

“You never said such before,” he pulls away while intently studying her face, swallowing the well of emotion rising in his throat with difficulty.

“I kept it to myself because at first I thought it merely a young girl’s foolish whim and I knew you have never been one devoted to the gods. I was afraid you would mock me.”

“Fuck me sideways,” he grumbles under his breath, knowing she is right although admitting it shames him to the core. “What changed your mind?”

“Well since then, I have realized the gods allowed me to glimpse the future through such dreams,” Sansa pulls him closer and caresses his face. “Perhaps it was the same for you.”

“Perhaps,” Sandor allows, kissing her soundly. “You need not fret that I will mock you, or anything else for that matter, lass. Let’s go back now.”

“Wait,” she places her hand on his chest. “I need to say something to you before we reach the castle.”

“Go on then.”

“I have learned from my father’s example, Sandor, and from the lessons you tried to impart as well. I will not shirk my responsibilities as a Stark. But I will not allow the wardenship to become my entire life, nor duties swallow the peace and happiness we have found in our family.” Holding his hands firmly in her own, she resolutely adds, “I mean to tell the queen I will serve as warden only until permanent arrangements for Rickon or Jon to serve can be made.”

“Are you certain?” Sandor asks incredulously, secretly reassured by her declaration.

“Yes, I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” Sansa replies, a quiet determination steeling her soft voice. “The home I dreamt of, our home is not Winterfell, dearest.”

Gently he moves closer still, gazing into her eyes with a mixture of hope and fear. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” Sansa smooths her hands over the front of his tunic. “I will not abandon the will of the gods out of duty. I love you; I love our children, and I will not sacrifice the gift the gods have bestowed on us. Our family holds first and foremost in my heart and my love, now and always.”

* * *

_“The wolves will come again,”_ Jojen’s words resounded in Jon’s ears. Upon receiving Sandor’s raven announcing the birth of the twins, pure, unadulterated joy spread through the young man for perhaps the first time in his life.  Unable to contain his enthusiasm, he ran through the halls of Winterfell, shouting orders for the bells ring from sunrise to sunset just as they did for his beloved Sansa’s birth.

As soon as he saw Daenerys, Jon grabbed the young woman and held her close, remembering a moment too late that she was queen and currently surrounded by her counsel.  As he began begging apologies, Jon noticed tears forming in Daenerys’ eyes.

“Did I hurt you?” Jon was startled by how small she felt in his arms. Gently he started to move away but Dany clung to him and shook her head. 

“No Jon, you did not hurt me. Pray forgive me. It has been so long since anyone treated me as a woman, as someone other than the queen or mother of dragons whom all fear, that I hardly know what I am about.” Knitting her brows, she added softly, “Come to think of it, Drogo was the last person to do so, and he was taken from me long ago. Your sudden embrace made me realize how very much I miss it.”

Behind them, he faintly heard the members of her counsel quietly leaving the solar but Jon paid them no mind. “You and I are family now,” he held her face, completely taken in by the tender expression in her lovely purple eyes. “You need never feel that you are merely the sum of your titles. You are a kind, generous, brave woman.”

Dany smiled and caressed his face. “Thank you for saying that. I have always longed for family. It is the sweetest part of life, and the one that has eluded me. Being with you has been the happiest I have been in a long time, Jon, and I am most grateful to have you.” The affection in her eyes touched his heart, and impulsively Jon leaned down and kissed her. To his surprise, she laughed once more and pulled him closer before deepening the kiss.

Since then Jon has spent every night in her bed. To his great relief, so far Daenerys has not become with child. After his own experience as a bastard, he remained uncomfortable with their liberal arrangement and within three months, Jon asked her to be his wife.

“Jon, are you certain this is what you want?” Dany asked incredulously, though her purple eyes sparkled with happiness at his words.

“Yes, Daenerys.  I want us to be a real family, wed in the sight of the old gods and the new. We will be happy together, I swear it.”

Worry clouded her features, and she hesitated before whispering, “I will never have children, Jon. You deserve a woman who can give you the family you long for, your own flesh and blood. I would not have you deny yourself such a precious gift for my sake.”

“No, Dany, don’t say that,” he said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “If the gods see fit, then we will have children. If they don’t, we will have each other.”

With that Daenerys readily agreed, though the couple decided to keep the news secret until all of his family returned to Winterfell. 

Arya arrived a moon’s turn later with her enigmatic friend, Jaqen H’gar. Stunned and saddened, Jon hardly recognized the little sister he left behind for the Night’s Watch. Now a grown woman, Arya returned to their ancestral home a beautiful, cautious, well-trained warrior. Though clearly suspicious of Dany, Arya treated her respectfully and listened to Jon recounting all that occurred with rapt attention.

When Jon learned of her training with the Faceless Men, both he and Daenerys feared her devoted to the same red god as Stannis and Melisandre. When he finally worked up the courage to share their concerns, Arya only laughed and put her arms around him. “Brother, how could you even think such a thing? I am a Stark, wolf blooded, same as you. The old gods are never far from me.”

“But that is part of the training, is it not?” Jon pressed further. “You must accept the religion of the Red God to gain the title of a faceless man, is that not so?”

“Well, yes, but I did not advance that far.”

“You are of their order, are you not?”

Arya shook her head. “You were the one who claimed I am one of the faceless men, brother, not I. I only said I trained as such. I never took the vows.”

“Why not?” Jon looked her over, his eye wandering over the ornate weapons resting on her hip alongside Needle. “You seem well equipped enough for it.”

“I lost the taste for it, that’s all,” Arya frowned. “I don’t want to talk about it. My dancing master in King’s Landing taught me there is only one god, and his name is death.”

Jaqen cast a small smile toward her as she spoke and Jon saw Arya raise her eyebrow at him in return. Before he could question her further, the queen interrupted them.

“You must have been tutored by a Braavosi, then,” Daenerys smiled excitedly, and all at once, Jon saw Arya’s defenses waver. Puzzled, she tilted her head at the queen, grinning in the same manner as when he presented her with Needle.  “Yes! My dancing master, Syrio Forel, was from Braavos.  How did you know, Your Grace?”

“I have traveled quite extensively and met several men with such training. You must be an extremely disciplined young woman, Arya. I am most fortunate indeed to be blessed with a goodniece such as you.”

“Thank you,” Arya smiled broadly. From then on, Jon was relieved to see the icy reserve swiftly dissolve between the two women. They began spending long days together discussing plans for the north. At Dany’s insistence, Arya began training her in the fundamentals of swordplay, and in turn, Daenerys taught her how to command the dragons and drilled her on the diplomacy needed as warden of the north.

Not long after, Gendry sought permission to court Arya’s hand. Dany expressed her eagerness for Arya to agree and spoke extensively on the benefits of having them united though marriage, but Jon refused to pressure his sister and stood firm.

“It is her choice and no one else’s, Dany. I insist that you respect my wishes on the matter. It is no more than I did for Sansa, and I will not have her obligated to wed where she does not wish it.”

Arya, for her part, listened quietly to them. “He has been part of my pack ever since I left King’s Landing,” she stated plainly, offering a shy smile toward Gendry. “Once I believed I would never marry, that married life was not for me, but I must admit that time and experience has changed my views on the matter somewhat. If you’ll just leave us be, I will consider it.”

Jon and Dany readily agreed.

“When Sansa and Sandor return, our family will be complete,” Daenerys whispered that night as he held her close.

“Yes, then Winterfell will once more belongs to the wolves at long last,” he kissed her softly before blowing out the candles.

The next morning Jon found Arya saddling Craven while Ghost dances excitedly around her. “Where are you headed, Sis?”

“I cannot wait,” Arya smiled. “Sansa is so close, I can feel her. Tell me you feel her, too.”

“Yes, I do,” he admitted, readying his tack.

“I can’t resist, Jon, I have to ride out to meet her. Want to come with me?”

“Alright,” Jon laughed, “Let’s go.”


	24. Dreams Come With a Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya’s hand instinctively rests on Wolf’s Blood, one of two Valyrian swords Danaerys had forged from Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail at the recollection of that day. “Sansa and I will do what Father and Robb could not,” she says aloud like a prayer.
> 
> “Wait up, Arya,” Jon shouts, brushing the brambles out of his face as they lead their horses deeper into the tree line. “Easy Sis, watch yourself. We don’t know who or what else is in these woods.”

Golden sunlight glitters through the dense forest, its rays casting golden bands along the path. Turning in the saddle, Arya frowns, struggling to remember the places she and Sandor camped so long ago. _We always camped by a creek or river; they should be along here somewhere._

Suddenly Ghost darts through the underbrush ahead of them, woofing softly. _He has picked up the scent of his littermate._  Eagerly Arya spurs her horse onward in pursuit. “Jon, this way!” She is impatient to reach her elder sister, for there are many things Arya wishes to tell her, things only Sansa would understand.

Though they were part of a pack, Sansa alone shared witness to their father’s death.  When Sansa screamed and struggled against the guard, calling for someone, anyone, to stop Ilyn Payne, her voice carried over the crowd of shouting onlookers to Arya until Sansa was the only one she heard.

Arya felt Sansa’s cries echo in her own heart, her suffering searing through her belly like a molten blade, the pain driving her closer to the platform with Needle at the ready.  She would have killed every person assembled that day to get to Sansa and her father, had Yoren not stopped her. Their grief was shared, visceral, primal, boiling with rage and misery.

From that day forward, Arya felt bonded to Sansa in a way the rest of the family would never understand.  They have never talked about it, nor did they need to, for when they were rejoined many years later, with tears and embraces the sisters’ hearts related it all.

Arya’s hand instinctively rests on Wolf’s Blood, one of two Valyrian swords Danaerys had forged from Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail at the recollection of that day. “Sansa and I will do what Father and Robb could not,” she says aloud like a prayer.

“Wait up, Arya,” Jon shouts, brushing the brambles out of his face as they lead their horses deeper into the tree line. “Easy Sis, watch yourself. We don’t know who or what else is in these woods.”

Sardonically Arya turns toward him, a mocking smile playing on her mouth. “Jon, do you truly believe there is something more dangerous than the prince who was promised, an assassin trained as a Faceless Man, the Hound and a direwolf that is as quiet as a cat?” Laughingly she shakes her head. “Just what the hell do you think is in this forest, brother?”

Chuckling Jon nods. “Never hurts to be prepared. Force of habit from serving the Night’s Watch.”

“Uh, huh,” Arya grins at him. “Hurry up, brother, I can’t wait!” Ahead of them, Ghost howls low. “He has found them!”

“How can you be sure?”

“You said the only time he ever made a noise was when he was with his littermates! Let us go!”

The nearness of her beloved direwolf calls to her too, a yearning that courses through her blood as natural and desperate as hunger and thirst. Arya still feels the pain of their separation as acutely as the day she chased her off on the Kingsroad. After being estranged for so long, the direwolf’s close proximity drives her onward, and the closer Arya comes to Sansa and Sandor’s camp, the stronger the sensation becomes. “Jon, they are just up ahead, I can feel it. Hurry!”

Mournful howls answer her, sending shivers through both Arya and Jon. “I believe you are right,” Jon motions toward Ghost, who has stopped and cocked his head beside a steep embankment. Whirling sharply, the animal sprints down toward the creek bed below.

“Arya, Sansa and Sandor must be camped down there somewhere,” Jon comments warily. “It seems like a safe enough place. That is where I would have stopped for the night.”

“Of course; this looks just like the places we camped! Brother, can you not feel them near?”

“Yes, I do.” Jon admits. “Steady, Arya.”

In a small clearing at the edge of a shallow stream, the siblings come upon Sandor and Sansa sitting on a nearby log as though expecting them. “Sansa!” Arya swings herself out of the saddle and fairly runs into Sansa’s waiting arms. “Look at you!” She gazes appreciatively at her older sister, taking in her womanly figure and glowing face.  Sansa is relaxed, happy and cheerful, and Arya heaves a sigh of relief. “Jon, just look at how well she looks! Your cheeks are as rosy as in olden days.”

Blushing, her sister eagerly hugs them in return. “Arya, you are looking quite well yourself. What a beauty you have become!” Sansa’s eyes meet her own. “Is everything quite alright?”

“Oh, yes of course,” Arya demurs, shaking her head as Jon looks over the wagon.

“Clegane, we’re here.”

“Jon and I couldn’t wait any longer to see you and the babies. What has kept you here in this spot?”

“Nothing, oh nothing at all,” Sansa winks in return. “The mornings are slow with two hungry babes. We were just ready to leave for Winterfell.”

Jon kisses Sansa on each cheek. “A proper lady and mum you are, Sansa.”

“You look well, brother.”

“As do you.”

After carefully looking over her sister once more, Arya finally agrees. “Yes, proper as ever; being married to a dog doesn’t seem to have changed you any. Where do have the little ones hidden, Sis?”

“They are inside napping,” Sansa smiles broadly as she takes Jon and Arya each by the hand. “Come and meet you niece and nephew.”

Leaning in close, Arya needles Sansa’s side. “Where is that hound of a husband of yours, anyway? He disappeared when we rode up.”

“Sandor thought he heard the babies so he went to check on them. I tell him he is merely nervous.”

“So you trained him to take care of his pups, have you, Sis? He must be quite tamed.”

Ducking his head out of the wagon, Sandor snarls at Arya. “Come to finish me off, have you, wolf bitch?”

“Like you would have heard me if I did.” Rolling her eyes at him, she looks him over. “Dog, you’re ugly as ever but I guess that’s expected from someone who’s returned from the dead.”

Smirking, Sandor nods stiffly, his mouth twisting into a devilish curl. “I could say the same to you.”

Throwing her head back, Arya laughs long and hard, and much to Jon and Sansa’s relief, Sandor soon joins her. “Charming as always, I see. You clearly have taken good care of my sister, so I suppose letting you live was wise after all. When I first heard you were alive, I half expected you to come after me.”

“Might do yet.”

Arya laughs once more. “If you get out of line, I’ll have Nymeria finish you off this time.”

“Bugger that, and you, too. Your wolf likes me well enough.” Sandor snarls out. “I’ll get the babes.”

“Where _is_ Nymeria?” Arya glances around. “I felt her-“

At the sound of her name, the immense direwolf leaps out of the brush, whining like a pup and covering her face in kisses. Ghost dances around them, wagging his tail. “Nymeria! Oh I have missed you! I could feel you, girl, the closer we got to camp.” Suddenly overwhelmed, she tearfully buries her face in the animal’s luxuriant fur. “We will never be parted again; I swear it on the old gods.”

Sansa brushes away a tear and smiles longingly at seeing her sister reunited with her beloved direwolf. Sandor bends down and offers the squirming bundle to Arya while Nymeria nudges her eagerly. “Meet Catya Clegane; Catya, meet your Aunt Arya.”

Arya remains frozen, suddenly overwhelmed that her niece is named after both her and her mother. Nymeria immediately sniffs the baby thoroughly, whining softly and nosing Arya to accept her.

“Catya Clegane,” Arya nods, struggling to hold back her tears as she takes the cooing bundle into her arms. “It suits her well. She’s so tiny.”

“Well she’s a mite bigger than she was five months ago,” Sandor shrugs, handing Edric to Jon. “Here is your nephew Edric, goodbrother.”

“It’s been years since I held a babe-“ Jon protests.

“Just hold his head,” Sandor gruffly adjusts Jon’s arms, “like this. You’ve got him.”

Stunned, Arya casts a surprised look at Sansa. “Sis, I cannot believe my eyes. The Hound giving lessons on child care. Things have changed!”

“Bugger off. Come, I want to talk privately, Jon.”

As the men walk away, Sansa leans in close. “Arya, what is it? Tell me.”

“Sister, I’ve, well, I’ve gone and done something stupid, really-stupid but wonderful.”

“What?”

Wincing, Arya sneaks a peek at Sansa with a shrug. “I married Gendry.”

“You did? “ Sansa pulls her away further from Jon and Sandor. “Oh my dearest! Arya, do you love him?”

Blushing, Arya ducks her head. “Yes, very much.”

“Are you-“

“NO!”

“Then forgive me but why did you say it was stupid?”

“I did it in the forest in front of the old gods. We said our vows at the Heart tree, just the two of us,” Arya confesses, wringing her hands. I wanted it to be just us, no one else. Well, Bran spoke to us there but that was it. Jon and the queen don’t know.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because-because I didn’t want Gendry to think I agreed only because it was what Danaerys wanted, that’s why. He and I were a pack years ago and, well, I was a child then but now when I met him again it was easy and familiar and-“ Arya stops abruptly when Sansa draws her close in her arms, looking and feeling so very much like their late mother.

“Because you love him,” Sansa finishes, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes with a soft smile. “That is not stupid; that is the best reason of all.”

“Yes, but what of the queen? She expected me to wed him to merge houses. I cannot help but feel obligated to her, after all she has done for us, and she is family. Her and Jon would have wanted some big elaborate feast and invited all these people that Gendry and I do not know and expected-“

“And expected you to be someone you are not, if only for a day, for her sake. I know you do not want to appear ungrateful.” Sansa sighs understandingly. “I feared the same when I married Sandor. But you must give Danaerys more credit, Arya. She knows exactly what it is to marry a man you do not know, have a huge feast with people you have never met to secure alliances. I am certain she would understand. Hiding it will only make matters worse.”

“I know. I only waited for your return, Sansa, and that way if she wants me out, at least you will be in Winterfell. Dany is a good sort I think, but she will do what she has to do as queen. She is not one of us, no matter how good she is, and I am not some child forced to wed a Dothraki horse lord. I do not expect her to understand me, Sansa. I have a choice. And the whole big wedding to unite houses-well, that’s not me.”

Sansa embraces Arya soundly and takes Catya from her arms. “We will tell her together, Sister, as soon as we return. Let us make things right by telling Jon first, alright?”

A sharp whistling sound cuts through the trees, piercing the stillness. _That noise…_ Arya turns sharply toward the tree line to see Nymeria wrenching an archer bearing the sigil of a flayed man from the trees and noisily tearing him apart.

With her hackles raised, the enormous direwolf  stands over the body and lets out a long bloodcurdling howl which is soon answered by the other wolves in the forest. _Wolves-it is Nymeria’s pack!_ “Nymeria, protect Sansa and the babes!”

Saliva pours from the enraged direwolf’s fangs as she takes position alongside Arya, dwarfing the young woman. The sound of swords clashing near the riverbed tell her that Sandor and Jon have been engaged by more men, and drawing Wolf’s Blood and Needle, Arya fights alongside Nymeria to blocks the enemy soldiers rushing toward her sister.

“Fear cuts deeper than swords!” She screams into the first soldier’s face as her blade pierces his armored plate. “Sansa, run!”

Ghost drags another man forward. Thick blood pours from a gaping wound in his back, staining the animals muzzle and paws. “Our blades are sharp,” he gasps out before the massive direwolf’s jaws clamp down on his throat, the sound barely audible over the clashing of steel and Nymeria’s ferocious snarls.

“The man who fears losing has already lost,” Arya spits in his face, then motions for Ghost to finish him.

“Arya,” Sansa slumps before her with a long arrow jutting from her collarbone. “Don’t-”

Out of the corner of her eye, Arya sees Ghost tearing the man from the trees, easily dismembering him.

“You’re alright, sister.” Kneeling, she takes Sansa into her arms, “Look at me. You’re alright.”

“Don’t let them get the babes, Arya, please,” Sansa whispers out. “Look after my children.”

“You will do that yourself,” Arya smooths the red strands from her face. “You and Sandor together.” Ripping off her cloak, she presses it tightly to Sansa’s shoulder. “You only have a flesh wound. You will live.”

“It hurts-“

“Don’t try to talk,” Arya lays her into the grass.

“No!” Sandor’s voice screams into her ear. He and Jon are covered in blood, but whether it is theirs or that of the enemy, Arya cannot tell. “No, no, no!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. I'm committed to finishing this story. I have the rest of the story outlined and the next update will be within a week. Let me know what you think. :D


	25. The Hound Returns from the Dead

Sinking to his knees, Sandor hands Edric to Arya and then pushes her out of the way, not ungently. Pressing hard on the material covering her wound, he then gathers Sansa in his arms. “Wife, stay with me, you hear? The babes need you. I need you.”

“Sandor,” Sansa whispers softly. “Don’t let them get the babes-“

Her voice is weak, Arya notes, and the color has all but drained from her face. “Don’t try to talk, Sis.”

“No one is taking our children, you hear?” He snarls out, his voice choked with tears. “No one. I’ll kill the Stranger himself.” More softly, Sandor rasps close to her ear. “Don’t leave me.”

The wild, fearsome look in Sandor’s eyes is familiar to Arya; she has seen it before, and knows the man is primed and ready to kill anyone who dares come near his little bird. His face is twisted into the same black, cold expression he wore when he heard Sansa was married to the Imp in the inn, just moments before the fight with Gregor’s men. Arya knows better than to approach him.

“Clegane,” Jon awkwardly rests his hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “She’ll be-“

Sandor turns sharply, jerking away from him. “Get your fucking hands off of me!” His eyes are feral, unfocused, his face pale save for his scarring. Drawing his sword, Sandor steps forward while tucking Sansa against him tightly.

“Jon, no-“ Arya steps between her brother and Sandor. “Leave him be.” Jon steps back and draws Longclaw warily.

 “Hound-Sandor-wait!” Arya boldly block his path and holds Edric in front of him. “It is your family, Jon and Arya and Edric, your son-not the enemy! Don’t fight us; let us help Sansa. Think of your children and your wife, damn it, and put down that sword this minute!”

Blinking several times, Sandor clenches his jaw and sheathes the sword. “Arya, she won’t make it back to Winterfell on horseback-she’s lost too much blood.”

“She will, Sandor. She lost a sight more in childbed, I’ll wager. Bring her to me. I can ride like the wind!” Throwing her leg over Craven, Arya pats the space in front of her.

A deep shadow falls over the wood just then, causing Jon and Arya to raise their eyes to the heavens above. “It is Viserion.”

Upon seeing Jon, Viserion lets out a long peculiar cry, one usually reserved for his siblings and Dany. Gendry is on his back, wearing armor and sword drawn; carefully he maneuvers the animal lower.

A whirl of wind suddenly surrounds them, stirring up leaves and dust as he sets Viserion down in a nearby clearing. Turning, Arya runs toward them. “Gendry! How did you know we needed you?”

“When the queen said you were driven to meet Sansa I feared it meant the old gods were calling to you-mayhap your brother Bran.” He explains. “I couldn’t shake it, and then Rickon returned with Shireen saying she had a dream about Sansa. I couldn’t stand to stay there then.” Mindless to her brother’s awe stricken stare, Arya throws her arms around him and kisses the young man soundly. “Thank the old gods you’ve come!”

“What happened here? Who are all these men?” Gendry pulls away, his eyes suddenly following Arya’s toward Sandor, who is clutching Sansa to his chest determinedly. “Oh gods, no! Is she-“

“No, no, love, Sansa lives. An arrow caught her just below the collar. She’s losing blood-too much for horseback-“ Arya hastily wipes her eyes. “Take her, Gendry.

“Go, save her if you can.” Jon waves his hand. “We’ll follow on horseback with the wagon.”

Gendry nods and pats the dragon on the neck, the beast shaking his head in response. “Clegane, come on then. Get the babes. I can carry you both. Winterfell is not far.”

Sandor frowns as he glances between the dragon and his wife. “Take her, boy,” he rasps, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll get the babes and join you.”

* * *

When Gendry returns with Sansa, Sandor and the babies on Viserion’s back, Rickon, Shireen and Danaerys are waiting for them in the courtyard. “Goodbrother, I knew Sansa was hurt!” Rickon twists his hands. “I felt it! It hurt awfully.” Shireen protectively places her hands around his shoulder.

Her eyes instantly filling with tears, the queen leans forward to examine Sansa’s lifeless body. “Is she-“

Sandor shakes his head. “The bastard of Bolton lives; some of his men ambushed us just as the wolf girl and her brother arrived.”

“Sandor, please, hand me your children. I will care for them myself. Rickon insisted something was wrong with Sansa, Gendry, so I had Maester Tarly and Elder brother ready their supplies. They are waiting for you in the quarters set up for the Cleganes.”

Sighing, Sandor nods curtly and unstraps the babies from their swaddling against his massive chest.

Quickly Danaerys takes them from his arms, balancing Catya and Edric on each hip. “Show Sandor the way.” Shireen tears the shawl from her shoulders and bundles the children close to the queen. When the men pause to stare at her, Dany barks, “Go men, take her at once-run!”

“Irri, make my room ready for the babes. I want fresh milk, warm furs, cloths for diapers, blankets, towels, fresh clothes and hot water for bathing.”

“Yes, Khaleesi!” Irri sprints away, her gleaming black braid waving behind her.

“Hodor, get Clegane something to eat and bring it to their quarters.”

“Hodor.” The gentle giant ambles off quickly toward the kitchens.

“I will find Lady Sansa some clean clothes, my lady.” Shireen dips her head and hurries off.

When Gendry and Dany are the only two left in the courtyard, the queen turns to him. “You sensed Arya was in danger; that is why you left so quickly. Is there someone you wish to tell me?”

“Forgive us, your Grace; we wed before the Heart tree in the sight of the old gods when we were camping out in the Wolfswood. “

“You what?!”

“We didn’t plan it, and there was no disrespect meant to you or the prince. Arya wanted to wait to tell you after her sister returned.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Danaerys’ purple eyes glitter angrily. Catya wriggles in her arms.

“Arya and I did not want a large wedded feast. We-“

Howling angrily, Catya fists Dany’s hair and pulls hard; Edric soon raises his voice as well. “The children need my attention, Gendry. We will discuss this later. Make ready the stables for Jon and Arya’s return.”

* * *

Time passes in a blur for Sandor as Elder brother and Maester Tarly examine Sansa’s wound. _Mother, save her if you can. I cannot lose her. I don’t know how to live without her._ His prayers sting bitterly on his tongue and yet Sandor persists, no knowing what else to do. He was in the same position after he was burned, and the knowledge claws his throat.Bleary eyed, Sandor sits quietly and cradles Sansa in his arms.

Elder brother gathers the surgical instruments as Sam administers milk of the poppy under her tongue.  “The tip is not poisonous,” Sam sighs in relief. “It did not react to the serums.”

Letting out a deep breath of relief, Sandor thanks the gods silently, though his prayers change as the minutes pass. His prayers of thanks to the Mother soon give way to entreating the Warrior to grant him revenge on the bastard of Bolton and to lead him to everyone who was involved in the attack. Rage courses through his veins at an unprecedented level, blackening his mood and tightening his chest. He wants to rant and curse, rage and pound his fists into the ground; but Sandor knows he must maintain a measure of calm if he is to help Sansa and so he draws a deep breath and strokes her hair.

Once she is asleep, Elder brother and Sam carefully examine the arrow. “It is lodged into the bone, shattering it. We needs get the weapon out  and set it while Sansa rests, Sandor.”

He failed her once, and he will not tolerate her suffering; just seeing the little bird in pain sends a subsequent ache through his wounded heart. “No.”

“Please, Sandor, let us do our work.” Elder brother makes the sign of the Seven over Sansa, then turns and does the same for Sandor. “The gods will help her.”

“I meant to say that I will help remove it. Tarly here isn’t strong enough, and I won’t tolerate you men causing her more pain than can be helped.”

With another word, Sandor washes his hands and sets to work, the two men together carefully dislodging the arrow while Samwell restrains her. Writhing beneath the young maester, Sansa feebly calls to him, the sound of her voice opening afresh the corresponding wound in Sandor’s heart.

“Easy lass,” Sandor mutters soothingly. “I’ll get this out as quick as I can.” With that he wrenches hard, freeing the arrow from her collarbone. Too weak to scream, Sansa quietly faints away. “Forgive me wife; the worst is over.”

“Lucky the bone caught it.” Elder brother deftly cleans and stitches the wound.  Sandor rushes to her side, whispering softly into her ear. “Tis better for her to be thus, lad. I’ll give her a pinch of yellow horse so she won’t remember the pain.”

“Aye,” Sandor dries his hands. “Good idea, that. Many thanks to you both. Go now, the both of you. I’ll watch over her.”

“Give her plenty of milk of the poppy today and tomorrow,” Sam hands Sandor several pouches of herbs. “Also, give her arnica root tea for the swelling every two hours, just a sip or two will do. I am having a large supply of water from the hot springs brought up here. It doesn’t smell good but it will prevent infection so give her as much as she will drink.”

Sandor nods, his eyes never leaving his wife. He meant to protect her, see her home safely. He failed; the least he can do is help her heal.

“I’ll have the butcher kill a calf for Sansa. Hot Pie can make bone marrow soup and fix up the liver for her; that will give her strength.”

“There is a remedy that the Wildings use,” Sam offers slowly, “You mix the blood of the calf with flour and drop it by the spoonful into boiling broth; it strengthens the patient right away after blood loss.”

“I know how to make it, m’lord,” Osha assures Sandor. “Me Ma taught me. It’s blood dumplin’s; good for the mother after child bearin’ or after a heavy moon cycle. It also sees us through when game is short.”

Sandor remains silent, stroking the hair matted at Sansa’s brow. Her face is as white as the pillowcase, making the red of her hair stand in stark contrast to her complexion. His beloved little bird almost died less than a day’s ride from Winterfell. The men who plotted such treachery will pay in the worst way imaginable.

Elder brother speaks softly as if reading his thoughts. “The Hound is dead. Sandor Clegane is at peace. Your wife has brought that to you, Sandor.”

Dark and dangerous, the Hound is no longer dead, of that Sandor is certain. The Hound awakened as soon as the frightened cries of his wife and children reached his ears, unleashing a primal rage within the man. Sandor brutally slayed every man that dared cross his path with a singular ferocity that frightened even himself before the release of bloodshed coursed through his blood.  His mouth curls into a wicked grin but still Sandor refuses to speak, the man contentedly stroking Sansa’s silken hair through his fingers.

 _I will kill them all for you, little bird. You and the pups. I swear on every one of the fucking gods, old and new. I’ll burn their bodies and alight the Dreadfort with dragonfire. If I have to burn in the Seven hells for it, I’ll do so gladly and bugger the gods._ Wordlessly Sandor then takes out his fighting knife, caked in the blood of Frey men, slices open his hand and presses lightly against her wound. _I will have my revenge for you, little bird._ Beneath his touch Sansa whimpers lightly in her sleep.He places a soft kiss on her mouth before his eyes trail down to the front of her sleeping gown; it is now soaked with milk, the sight shaking him from his dark reverie.

“Sandor, Sandor,” Elder brother’s voice echoes somewhere in the distance. Snapping his head, Sandor glares at the man. “Will you allow us to try this Wilding remedy on Sansa?” Elder brother gently inquires, the man watching Sandor closely as he does so.

“Do whatever needs to be done. Bring it all; I’ll see that she eats it.” Sandor answers flatly, wishing they would just leave them be. He longs for solitude, to be alone in the darkness and become one with it, to let it flow through him as it did after Gregor burned his face and killed his sister and mother. Sandor’s rage will fuel his revenge once more, and no gods, old or new, will be able to save the remaining Boltons now.

 _The pups._ Blinking, his mind instantly shifts to a softer place, the place Sandor had been living in until his eyes saw Sansa lying in a heap in Arya’s arms, her blood staining the snow beneath her. “Where are the babes?”

“The queen’s tryin’ to do for them babes herself. Boiled cow’s milk, aye, but they don’t take to it none, either. Their squallin’ is all over the castle.”

 _Sansa will be angry when she hears that._ “My wife is ready to nurse; you can bring them to her. I’ll hold them.” Sandor gestures to her; though she is covered by a sheet, Elder brother and Samwell both understand at once.

“I’ll bring them direct, and a fresh gown as well,” Osha smiles. “Gilly has lots. “Then I’ll see to the dumplins, m’lord.”

“A good woman you are,” Sandor forces a taut smile. “And clean and sharpen my weapons will you?”

Grinning, Osha nods. “Aye for certain I will.”

“Save that bloody cloth for me,” Sandor gestures to Elder brother. “I want all of it, damn you.”

Confused, the man casts a quizzical look at him.

 “I mean to wear my wife’s favor on my sword when I slaughter those buggering Bolton  cowards.” Sandor spits on the floor as though the very word fouls his tongue. “I’ll bring her their heads for this, believe that.”

Sandor watches Elder brother visibly shiver at his words, but he could not give a single fuck; the time for the Seven’s way is over. Now is the time for the Hound.

“Sandor, are you certain you wish to travel down this road? Let us pray-“

“Your way is yours, holy man, and mine is mine,” Sandor snarls out, baring his teeth. The words are forced from his throat. Swallowing hard, he continues, his voice low and menacing. “Any man who gets in between me and the ones who did this will taste my steel.”

Nervously Samwell glances at Elder brother, who merely nods, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “Then come to me before you leave for the Dreadfort and I will say the Warrior’s blessing over you, Sandor Clegane. Vengeance is a place you can visit, my son, but you cannot live there. Your wife and children love and need you. Do not let the Hound consume you.” With that the holy man leaves Sandor alone with his thoughts and Sansa.


	26. The Devil Within

For three days the maester administers the milk of the poppy, the substance lulling Sansa into a deep, restful sleep and sparing her the agony of recuperation. Sandor, ever vigilant, refuses to allow anyone to tend her other than himself and Elder brother. When he finishes caring for Sansa, Sandor alternates between draining his flask, praying for his wife’s health, and planning the most savage way possible to exact his revenge on the Boltons. The Hound has returned to him for certain: brutal, vengeful and feral.

It is both frightening and liberating after so many years of suppressing his anger, to give it free reign once more. Feeding off anger and drowning his regret with wine, the man often wonders if he had remained as he was, if he might have been better prepared to protect her.

It is folly, he knows, for Sandor did no better in King’s Landing. He stood by and let the Kingsguard beat her, and he didn’t force her to leave with him, either. Time spent on the Quiet Isle silenced most of his inner demons, but not all; only Sansa’s love had accomplished that. Sandor’s dreams then consisted of Sansa and a future life with their family, but now only sickeningly satisfying visions of revenge assault Sandor’s fitful sleep, bringing the rage and hatred once reserved for Gregor to the fore once again.

During his waking hours, Sandor’s mind replays his memories of King’s Landing, and when he first saw his beloved little bird at Winterfell. He failed her then just as he failed to protect her from the Bolton’s arrow. She deserves better than him, Sandor knows, and despite her trust he is not the man she thinks he is. It will mean the death of her to stay with him and yet a part of him knows that in spite of everything, Sansa would never leave him.

It would be up to him to protect her, if not from others, then from himself. Sandor means to leave her once she is well for the sake of her safety and that of his children, but in his heart he realizes he is incapable of such a thing; it would be unbearable knowing that he caused her pain.

Life without her would be a fate worse than anything he has ever known; in fact, he is not certain he could survive without her, for Sansa’s love saved him in many ways. But now, a far deeper fear haunts him: when she awakens, his beloved wife will no longer recognize the man he has become, and once she realizes he is the Hound, she very well may choose to send him away.

Sandor’s melancholy has been played out for the entire castle to witness, but he doesn’t give a fuck. Even the queen has put off leaving, and he knows it is at least in part because of his behavior. Anger and self loathing return to him in full force, fueling his drinking and robbing him of sleep. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan have tried talking to him, but he pays them no mind. What would two old bloody  knights know if his suffering?

Only Sansa, Arya and Elder brother know the truth about his nature. The holy man so far has said very little, and merely offers droughts to alleviate his misery with a few words of comfort. Sandor dutifully drains the vials but nothing works as well as Dornish sour. Drunken exhaustion stings his eyes and grips his head in its vice but even in this state, Sandor cannot bring himself to leave Sansa’s side, not even to check on Catya and Edric.

Once Elder brother leaves for the day, Sandor does not allowed anyone to enter their bed chamber. He prefers the darkness, the quiet solitude of just him and Sansa. No one has interfered with his daily routine, that is, no one but Arya.

While the rest of the castle bustles about with its daily activities, only Arya seems to recognize the descent Sandor is spiraling toward.  After all, she was there the last time Sandor was in such a way. Determined he would not leave her to the same fate as her sister, he stole her away under the pretense of ransom, after his battle with Beric Dondarrion. From what little he can remember of the trip afterward, it is something he is certain the young woman would rather forget.

She had been angry too, then, and reminded him so much of his younger self that Sandor had been a bit worried about her. Arya had been in her own dark place after first losing her father and then her mother and brothers, but this time she was different. Then, he only need growl at her and she would retreat to the blankets, scowling and silently plotting ways to kill him. Now, however, Arya is the only person in Winterfell that Sandor has been unable to scare off.

She sits in the corner now with Nymeria at her feet, wordlessly watching him sponge off her sister. Ignoring her, he goes about his tasks in silence. After Sandor finishes, the man collapses beside Sansa on the bed, tentatively curling his body around her own.

“Watch me all you want, wolf bitch; you know what I’m about. You’ll not change my mind, either, so spare me your Stark notions of duty and honor.” He leans forward and spits at her feet before curling back into Sansa.

Ignoring him, Arya folds her arms. “Is she better today?”

“Sansa is warm but no longer feverish.” Gently he pulls her against his chest.  “She’ll be fine.” Sighing contentedly, the little bird nestles back into him, the innocent movement welling up a lump of emotion in Sandor’s throat.

“Good. When will the maester awaken her?”

Sandor does not respond, only pulls Sansa closer still. Though he knows it is irrational, he cannot shake the fear that someone, something, will yet try to take her from him. Each day Sansa sleeps is one more day Sandor has to try to get his shit together so as not to disappoint her further still.

“Tomorrow.”

“I do know you, Hound. I know you cannot leave her and the children, though your instinct is to run away like a dog with its tail tucked between his legs.”

“Fuck off. What do you know of it?”

“I know you mean to leave to get justice for my sister. I wasn’t going to try to change your mind about that, either.” Arya says softly. “Why would you even think that? When did I ever try to keep you from killing?”

“Not justice-bugger that. Revenge.”

His words send an involuntary shiver through Arya, the sight  giving Sandor a smug sense of satisfaction.

“Answer me,” she persists. “When did I stop you from killing?”

“The hog farmer.” He answers after some deliberation, his mind hazy with wine and lack of sleep.

“Alright,” Arya laughs, “I’ll give you that one but only because he was a harmless old man.”

“Why are you here, then, if not to change my mind? What the fuck do you want, anyway?” Sandor snarls at her. “I’m not interested in jawing about the past so take your bloody beast and be gone.”

Raising her brow at him, Arya sits down at the foot of the bed. “I want to know when you were planning on getting your lazy arse out of this bed.” She nudges his foot. “You’re crazier than people are saying if you think I’m going to leave you in here this way with my sister.”

“Bugger that. Bugger you. I’ll do whatever I want with _my wife_ , understand?”

“Hound, you smell like shit. Your children need you. My sister needs you well-not like this.”

“Aye,” he mutters quietly. He hasn’t seen the pups in a few days and the realization sends a fresh wave of guilt over the man. Sandor leans over for the wineskin but Arya snatches it away.

“We’ve got Boltons to kill. If you don’t get yourself together I’ll do it without you.”

 _She never was afraid of me, bloody wench_. Snorting, Sandor sits up and regards her. She is armed to the teeth, with both Needle and Wolf’s Blood strapped to her waist.

“I see you’ve got your Wilding war paint on,” Sandor smirks, taking in the ancient symbols painted on her arms and neck. “A lot of bloody good that will do. Don’t you and the Boltons worship the same gods?”

Arya shrugs. “Mayhap. They are also the gods of your wife and children, Hound. They led you to her, and they brought Gendry to us as well. You know that, for all the shit you talk about them.”

“Those bloody bastards from the Dreadfort better rally all the deities they can find, you best believe, because the Stranger himself is coming for them. I will have my revenge in fire and blood just like the fucking Targaryens and I won’t need any bloody dragons to do it, either.”

A soft knock on the door startles him. “Who the fuck is it now?” Sandor growls low, rubbing his eyes.

“Osha, m’lord.”

Sighing, he sinks back into the pillows. “Well don’t just stand out there; come inside; everyone else does.”

Osha’s thick laughter echoes through the door before she enters, nodding knowingly at Arya as she does so. Sandor likes the woman, for she is the only woman besides Sansa and Arya who will look him straight in the face. She is open and honest and expects no less from others.

Osha was once a spearwife, Arya told him, and a ferocious one at that.With her shaggy hair, she doesn’t look the least bit threatening, especially when balancing Catya and Edric on each hip. “M’lord, the bairns just et and bathed off, so I thought they’d want to see their Pa,” Osha thoughtfully enters the bedchamber, her eyes falling on Sansa’s sleeping form nestled in the furs. 

“Aye, good on you, woman. Come to me, Catya pup,” Sandor nuzzles into the nape of his daughter’s neck, taking comfort in having the little one in his arms. Eagerly she holds out her arms to him and squeals in delight when he pulls her close.

She is the sweetest thing he has ever held, his little Catya. In her he sees the innocence Sansa once had. Over the years, Sandor heard it said that men always love their sons more but he doesn’t believe a word of it _. Bugger that_ , he thinks as he runs his finger over her silky cheek. Catya in particular brings out gentleness that Sandor never knew he possessed. Her huge gray eyes sparkle as she stares at him, just the way Sansa’s do.

Arya has taken Edric, who babbles happily in her arms and wriggles excitedly at the sight of his father. “Give Edric to me,” Sandor lifts the boy into his arms, who snuggles down contentedly against his chest. Edric’s soft blue eyes hold the innocence Sandor lost when he was burned, and it is so beautiful that at times Sandor finds it almost painful to look upon. Beholding his children nestled in his arms, Sandor cannot imagine choosing to love one above the other, let alone willingly leaving them out of some buggering misplaced sense of protection.

They are blood of his blood, the best of him and Sansa together, made flesh and given life by the gods. It is a powerful feeling, to be unconditionally loved and accepted by his children.  Edric and Catya are the only two people Sandor will never shield himself from; and holding them now fills the man with a renewed determination.

“Lady Sansa can’t feed ‘em proper with that potion in her blood,” Osha shifts nervously on her feet, knowing that Sandor does not want anyone nursing the children but Sansa. “But she’ll pass it in the milk and so can’t.”

It is all he can do not to snap at the woman, though Sandor knows she is right. Besides, he hasn’t been taking care of them anyway, so the blame lies with him. “Is there enough women nursing in Winterfell to feed them?”

“Aye, always Wilding females around here bringing forth babes.”

“Bring the healthiest and sturdiest of them to nurse the babes. See that they are given extra rations. I’ll pay them for nursing them as well.”

Osha grins up at him, “As you wish, m’lord. What about Lady Sansa? She won’t like it none.”

“Leave her to me,” Sandor waves his hand at her. “After every meal, bring the pups back when they’ve had their fill, will you?”

“Of course,” Osha pauses, her shrewd eyes surveying him. “Hard as you are, I never seen a man as involved with his young as you, Sandor Clegane.”

“They are as much mine as Sansa’s.”

Arya and Osha exchange smiles. “Aye, tis true but most think it’s woman’s work.”

”Any man who won’t care for his own is a bloody fool.” Sandor mutters, reluctantly handing Catya and Edric over to her.

After Osha leaves, he turns back to Arya, who is smirking at him in a decidedly self-satisfied manner.

“Did you have Osha bring them?”

“Yes,” Arya tosses his tunic to him. “So?”

“Why?” Sandor glares at her.

“It’s what Sansa would do to get your thick head back on straight,” she throws him a towel. “Come. I’ve had a bath drawn for you. I’ll watch over her while you clean up.”

“Had enough of the stench, wolf girl?” He climbs out of bed, heedless that he is only wearing his smallcothes. “Then get the fuck out of here.”

Arya laughs. “You stink worse than when we were travelling together. What do you suppose Sansa will say when she gets a whiff?”

“You didn’t exactly smell like winter peaches then, either,” Sandor snorts at her. “Though that beast of yours stinks worse still; bloody hells.”

“Oh, is that so? You didn’t seem to notice her on the Quiet Isle, _Hound_ , for all your talk of her distinctive odor.”

Sandor turns sharply toward her, the sudden movement sending a searing pain to his temple. “What in bloody hells does that mean?”

“I scented you in the tidal flats of the Quiet Isle as Nymeria in a wolf dream.”

Stunned, Sandor slumps down on the bed and rubs his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “We saw huge paw prints in the sand but-“

“That was us,” Arya nods nervously, tracing her foot on the granite flooring. “Why do you think you never saw any Lannister or Baratheon deserters when you were there? Just dumb luck?  Didn’t you think it odd no sellsword came looking for you?”

Sandor shrugs; he had thought it strange, especially since word that he was raping and pillaging the Saltpans had spread all over the South. Now it made sense.

“Nymeria ate well in those days.”

Sandor could not help but laugh at her admission, and Arya joined him. “The only reason Lady Brienne made it was because I could tell she cared about finding Sansa. She’s a good sort.”

“Then why not leave it to the wench to find your sister?”

Arya leans in close. “For Jaime Lannister? Fat chance. I knew you would go to Sansa, Hound. No one tracks the way you do, and you could not bear to stay away from her. I knew if I found you, you would lead me to her.”

“How could you know any such thing?” Sandor’s eyes bore into her own.

“You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself,” Arya unflinchingly stares into his eyes. “I remember your dying words on the Trident; and from you that’s as close to an admission of love as anything. That’s why I couldn’t kill you.”

Enraged, Sandor lurches toward her and wraps his hand around her throat. “You’ll not tell her about that, you hear?”

Laughing ruefully, Arya places her hand on his wrist and presses down hard on a spot just above the bone that instantly brings Sandor to his knees.  “Same old Hound, huh? Well I’m not the same girl. Don’t do that again or I’ll break your arm, goodbrother or no.”

Jerking away, Sandor shakes his head and rubs his wrist angrily. “You’d better not tell Sansa, if you know what’s best for you.”

“I’ll tell her if I like. She should know how deeply you regretted leaving her!” Arya’s eyes fill with tears, the tender display surprising the man. “If you had talked this out with her, you wouldn’t be in the position you’re in now, all drunk and feeling sorry for yourself.”

“What do you know of it, wolf bitch?” Snorting, Sandor starts to turn away but Arya grips him firmly.

“Sansa never blamed you for leaving her in King’s Landing, you know! She used to think of you for comfort. Gods, do you know how many times she awakened me and Jon in the middle of the night crying out for you? She always saw you as the man who tried to protect her and taught her to look out for herself.”

Swallowing hard, Sandor suddenly shrinks away from her, her words stinging sharper than any blow.

“How is it possible you are married and neither of you have brought this up?”

“We have, some,” Sandor mutters while staring at his feet. “I know about the Vale and Littlefucker-not that it’s any of your bloody business!”

Arya throws down the remaining wine flasks, shattering them on the floor and then jabs her finger in his chest, startling him. “It is my business when you are busy drowning yourself in Dornish sour while _my niece and nephew_ are cared for by others! It will be my business when my sister awakens and asks me what the hell happened to you while she was healing!”

Sighing, Sandor says nothing, only rubs his hands over his face. Love for his beloved little bird mixed with shame overwhelms the man. Sansa’s love has saved him from himself many a time and given him a small measure of willpower. It seems it may do so yet again, if only to live long enough to avenge her. Slowly he nods in assent.

Satisfied, Arya continues, “Gods knows why, but Sansa loves you, so get up and be the man she fell for! Be a father to your children and stop the pity party-stop all of this nonsense at once!”

“I hear you, stop that bloody shouting before I wring your scrawny neck,” Sandor eases himself out of bed.

“Well, it’s about time,” Arya heads for the door. “We leave in a sennight.”

Rising to his feet, Sandor nods and goes into the bathing room without a word. He’ll clean up his ways, aye, but he’ll not give up the Hound until every surviving Frey and Bolton tastes his steel. If he has to spend eternity in the Seven hells for his sins, at least Sandor will meet his fate secure in the knowledge that his family is safe.


	27. Awakenings

Swirling shapes and shadows play before Sansa’s eyes; blinking several times, she struggles to focus.  “How are you feeling?” Elder brother’s square face comes into view, his shrewd eyes examining her closely.

Deliberately Sansa eases herself upright, wincing as sharp pangs gnaw her wound. “I feel sore,” her voice sounds weak from lack of use. “And tired.”  Hissing, she adjusts herself into a sitting position under Sandor’s watchful gaze.

Chuckling, Elder brother nods. “That is to be expected.”

“Easy lass,” Sandor slips another pillow behind her head. Looking up, Sansa’s smile fades as her eyes are drawn to Sandor’s bloodshot eyes, dark circles and unkempt hair and beard; his clothing is clean but everything else about her husband is in disarray. The dry stench of Dornish sour faintly reaches Sansa’s nose as Sandor moves about the bed, carefully tucking the furs around her. Suddenly the gnawing pain in her shoulder is dwarfed by fear.  

“Have you been ill, husband? Please tell me truly.”

He refuses to meet her eyes, something Sansa has rarely seen in Sandor. _What has happened to him? Why won’t he answer me?_ Anxiously her eyes dart between Elder brother and her husband. Awkwardness settles over the room.

When Sandor does not answer, Elder brother quietly offers, “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

 _Gods, he has gone back to drinking and…_ no, Sansa would not let herself think that of him. “What is it?”

 _Did Sandor kill someone at Winterfell?_   Surely not;even at his drunkest in King’s Landing, Sandor never incurred what the court callously called collateral damage, their name for when a knight, drunk and angry, killed an innocent bystander _._  This is WInterfell, not the Red Keep, and undoubtedly he would have been taken to the cells if that was the case.

 _Perhaps he has taken comfort in the arms of another woman._ Alarmed by his continued silence, Sansa throws back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed before a surge of dizziness sweeps over her. “Sandor-“

Shifting beneath her, Sandor wraps his arms around her waist and rasps uneasily, “Calm yourself, wife. Deep steady breaths; that’s the way.” His lips graze her cheek as he strokes her hair reassuringly. “Let yourself get used to the feel of sitting upright before you try getting out of bed.”

Leaning into his touch, Sansa lets out a soft sigh. “Sandor, I can bear it; tell me what has happened to you.”

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, lass,” Sandor growls into her ear, then tips her face up to him. His deep gray eyes are sullen, dark, and simmering with suppressed rage. “Remember the serpentine?”

A deep shudder wracks her body. “I do, Sandor. But you are not that man anymore.” In the far corner of the room, Elder brother mills about, ignoring their conversation.

Sneering, Sandor shakes his head. “Scared of me now, are you?” 

“Never,” Sansa determinedly meets his eyes, noticing his own piercing gaze softens as he regards her. “You won’t hurt me.”

“No, Little bird, I won’t hurt you,” Sandor kisses her forehead with a tenderness belying his fierce countenance. “I’ll get the pups.”

“You will experience a bit of discomfort once the milk of the poppy leaves your system, my lady,” Elder brother warns. “You must move slowly.”

“Please, Elder brother,” Sansa irritably replies, her gaze following Sandor as he leaves the room. “I have borne two children, _Clegane_ sized children; you need not educate me on the subject of pain.”

A gentle laugh comes from the doorway. Queen Daenerys is leaning against the frame with a broad smile, her amethyst eyes twinkling as she looks over Sansa. She is smaller than Sansa had imagined. Her demeanor and coloring, however, is all Targaryen. _She is no older than I am and very beautiful at that,_ Sansa muses, _no wonder Jon is smitten with her._

“You may go,” she waves away Elder brother. “Forgive me, my lady, it seems this is an unfortunate time for introductions. Your brother Jon thought it best if a woman came to visit first. I just could not wait another moment to see you. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

“My queen,” Sansa whispers while feebly struggling to sit up. “It is an honor to meet you. My sister and I are most grateful to you for saving our brother and restoring our home to us.”

“No, my dear, you mustn’t try to talk or arise on my account,” Dany moves to her side and gently presses her shoulder onto the pillow. “You will exhaust yourself and tear your stitching.”

“But it is not appropriate for me to stay in bed when the queen-“

“Shh,” Dany smiles softly. “Jon said you are a great lady; I see it is true. I was raised with such principles as well; however, it is far less appropriate to expect you to stand on ceremony under these trying circumstances. Please, rest and take your ease.”

“Thank you, Your Grace; you are too kind.” Sansa smiles at her. “I am so glad to meet you. What a lovely gift from the gods, to find you of our own flesh and blood!” When Daenerys stares at her, she adds, “I think it is fair to say that both Starks and Targaryens are always happy to meet new family members.”

“Indeed, thank you, Lady Sansa.” Hurriedly Daenerys wipes her eyes, seemingly embarrassed by her emotional response to Sansa’s sentiment. “Please, call me Daenerys or Dany, if it pleases you.”

“It pleases me greatly to do so, and I would be honored if you would call me Sansa. Have you met my husband?”

Pleased, Dany eagerly nods. “Yes indeed. Lord Clegane is most devoted to you, Lady Sansa,” her voice softly echoes in the room. “He refused to leave your side even to take a meal.”

“Yes, he is,” Sansa glances toward the doorway warily. “I see worry has taken a toll on him, though; I would not have him languish for my sake in such a way.”

“Indeed, in many ways he did languish. Sandor has frightened all of the castle help as well as the soldiers.” the queen agrees. “But that is for the two of you to discuss in private.”

“And so we will discuss it,” Sansa looks up at her husband as he walks in carrying the twins. “Won’t we?”

Sandor gruffly nods and clears his throat while balancing Catya and Edric on Sansa’s lap.

“Your children are a delight,” the queen wistfully comments, “I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them.”

“We are most grateful to you,” Sansa takes Sandor by the hand. “Are we not, my love?”

“Aye,” Sandor assents, shifting on his feet, the man acting as though both women are able to see straight through him. “We are at that, my queen.”

Glancing between them, Dany tries to suppress her smile. “Forgive me but I must leave you now. There is much to do before I make for King’s Landing and I believe you two have some catching up to do as well.” Her glittering eyes settle on Sandor.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sansa bows her head. “It was very good of you to come to see me.”

After Sandor settles the babies in their cribs, Sansa motions for him to sit beside her. “My love, I dreamed of you.”

“Did you now?” Sandor took her hand in his and tenderly kissed each fingertip.

“I did,” she smiles at him. “Even in my dreams, I felt your presence. Thank you.”

Shrugging, Sandor finally raises his eyes to hers, and Sansa responds by cupping his face in her hands. “I love you.”

“And I you, wife.” Sandor lowers his gaze once more.

“You must not hide yourself from me, Sandor. When we married I feared this would happen to you one day, as is the way of such an affliction,” Sansa soothingly rubs her thumbs over his cheeks.

Taken aback, Sandor studies her curiously.

“We had many men in Winterfell suffer in the same manner,” Sansa offers by way of explanation, “so I knew what to expect when me married."

“Are you sorry that you joined yourself to such a weak creature?” He drops his eyes, unwilling to face her gaze.

“No, Sandor,” and for once it is Sansa’s turn to turn his face up to hers. “And you are not weak; you are the strongest man I know. I prayed for your health but in such dire conditions it is to be expected. That you would fall back into old habits is only natural. It is nothing to be ashamed of, dearest.”

“How would you know?” Sandor bitterly forces out the words from his throat. “You’ve never been ashamed of anything in your life.”

Sandor knows all too well what she has suffered but Sansa refuses to allow him to redirect the subject of the conversation. “Since when have you become an expert on my feelings?” Sansa mockingly bristles, her exaggerated expression bringing an unbidden smile to Sandor’s face. “You know my regrets better than anyone, but this is not about me, this is about you.”

“I’ve been so angry and feared you would return to your father in the afterlife.” He clears his throat.

“And?”

“I have drinking some, just to take off the edge,” Sandor awkwardly begins. “Well, I’ve been drinking a lot, actually.”

“I understand,” Sansa begins before Sandor smirks and tries to move away from her. Willfully Sansa holds on to him. “You felt helpless, unable to keep your family safe.” Weaving her fingers through his, she whispers, “But you must not blame yourself. Those men had likely planned their attack for months.”

“Aye. They will rue the day they met me.” Sandor grips and releases his fists as he speaks. “They will beg the Stranger to take them.”

Leaning forward, Sansa kisses each cheek and then softly covers his mouth with her own. At first Sandor stiffens before quickly relenting, the man returning her kisses with passionate urgency. After the initial desperate want subsides, Sansa gently pulls away.

“I see the hatred, the anger in your eyes even now for those men.”

“You know the man you married, little bird.” Sandor jerks away from her, leaving Sansa deprived of his touch. “I'm no fucking knight in shining armor, wife, no matter what you’ve deceived yourself into thinking.”

“You saved me, dearest; you carried me back to Winterfell on a dragon of all things.” Sansa forces Sandor to look at her. “Please, do not punish yourself any longer. I know it is most difficult but let me help you.”

Sighing deeply, Sandor rests his forehead on hers, squeezing his eyes shut as he does so. “It isn’t as easy as that, wife.”

“Of course. But this time, you aren’t alone-it won’t be as it was on the Quiet Isle. I am with you, the babes are with you-we will do it together. Elder brother will help us, my love; you’ll see.”

“I’ve got to finish this first, wife,” Sandor holds up his hand when Sansa begins to protest. “I won’t be able to live with myself otherwise. The wolf bitch understands; so does the queen.”

“You promised you would never leave me,” a single tear rolls down Sansa’s cheek. “Do you mean to break your word so easily?”

“I am not breaking my word, gods be damned!” Sandor roars at her, pounding his fist on the table with all his might. “I’m keeping it! Don’t you remember the night of the Blackwater?”

Sheepishly Sansa stares down at her hands. “Yes. You said no one would hurt me again or you would kill them.”

“And I bloody well meant every word of it! Those bastards will taste my steel, each and every last one of them, and I mean to burn their fucking holdfast to the ground!” He raged, overturning the table. Panting, Sandor could barely catch his breath, the look in his eyes wild and frightening.

Knowing full well that her husband needs an outlet for his pent up fear and worry, Sansa calmly watches him while smoothing the furs in front of her. When Sandor finally settles down, she pats the space beside her. Slowly he slumps down on the bed, covering his face in his hands.

“Forgive me.” His words came out in a strangled rasp.

“For what?” Sansa asks softly. “For releasing your emotions? I have never asked you to be less than you are, Sandor Clegane. I have never once told you to hold back; I am a woman grown, wedded and bedded, and a mother besides; I can take the good and the bad, and all that is in between.”

Turning toward her, Sandor cups her face in both hands. “I’ll never leave you, little bird, but this is something I have to do.” Sansa feels him trembling beneath her.

Nodding sadly, she rests her hands on his forearms. “I know, as much as it scares me, I know, and I love you for it.”

Tenderly he kisses her forehead, each cheek, and then brushes her lips with his own. “Arya and I leave at first light, love.” With that Sandor leaves the room.

Arya gently knocks and then tiptoes in. “Sis, it’s good to see you up.”

“Come in Arya pup,” Sansa pats the bed. “Sit with me.” When Arya kicks off her boots, Sansa pulls back the covers and holds out her arms. “Sister, I need a hug.”

“Just like in the olden days,” Arya gently cradles Sansa against her breast and strokes her hair. “Only this time it isn’t thunder, it’s the Hound, am I right? I heard the blow up.”

“I’m sure all of Winterfell heard it,” Sansa sniffles. “Is that why you came?”

“Well, yeah,” Arya admits, “And I thought now would be a good time to share something with you.”

Rising, Sansa looks up at her. “What is it?”

Arya draws in a deep breath. "I just thought if I told you something that happened when Clegane and I were travelling that perhaps you would be able to…understand him.”

“I think I understand my own husband,” Sansa petulantly replies before pausing at Arya’s darkened expression. “Tell me.”

“Sansa, the fact that Sandor didn’t force you to go leave King’s Landing tormented him. That’s partly why he stole me from the Brotherhood without Banners.”

“I thought he meant to ransom you.”

Arya nods. “He did, but the way he spoke of his regrets regarding you during our travels led me to believe that he couldn't live with himself. I guess Sandor decided he wouldn't leave another Stark girl to her own devices.”

Chuckling Sansa agrees. “Yes, that sounds like him.”

Staring levelly into her sisters’ eyes, Arya replies, “That regret nearly killed him, Sansa. Sandor tried to smother it with drink but no matter how drunk he got, it was never enough.”

Swallowing hard, Sansa’s face falls as she listens.

“Sometimes after we made camp, he would chop wood for hours,” Arya continues, “He’d cut up far more than we could use and then fall into the blankets without even lighting the fire.”

“Oh, my poor husband,” Sansa wipes her eyes tearfully. He had never told her any details of that time, and Sansa's heart breaks anew for him. “He couldn't live with knowing that I was still suffering, isolated from my family.”

“More than that, Sis,” Arya solemnly stares at her. “When we returned to the inn, one of Gregor’s men, Polliver, told us that you had married the Imp and that you flew away. It crushed him, Sansa.”

At her words, Sansa begins openly weeping; Arya gently hands her a handkerchief. “Sandor was broken in that moment. He guzzled as much wine as he could get down afterward.  During the fight, I saw more rage in him than ever before. If he hadn’t been so plowed, he would have killed them all, but instead he was grievously wounded.”

“The terrible scar on his thigh,” Sansa bites her lip. “It was from that fight.”

Arya nods. “In his mind, Sandor failed to protect you, Sansa-and he thinks that because he didn’t steal you, you were left to your own devices and made an easy target for Tyrion.”

Searching her mind, slowly Sansa puts it all together. “When he came to the Wall, I told him that Baelish took me away. I suppose he blames himself for everything that happened after.”

Arya takes her by the hand. “As he lay dying next to the Trident, Sandor sobbed over it all, Sansa-over you. He tried to goad me into killing him by saying you would have better off if he had taken your maidenhead and your life rather than leaving you for the Imp.”

Crying softly, Sansa buries her face in Arya’s doublet. “Oh, gods have mercy.”

“Sister, every day when Clegane pulls on his breeches, he is reminded of that day-of you, and what happened to you the last time he didn’t protect you.” Arya stares deep into her eyes. “You are his wife now, the mother of his children. Can’t you understand why the Hound has returned and why needs to kill the Boltons? Do you get that your husband literally will not be able to live with himself if he doesn’t?”

“I do, Arya, I do,” Sansa pulls Arya into a warm embrace. “And I thank you for telling me.”

Arya pats her on the legs. “What will you do?”

“I’ll speak to him before you leave. Will you send him to me at once?”

Grinning, Arya nodded. “I’ll do it right now.” Before she turns to leave, Sansa impulsively hugs her close. “You’re a good sister, Arya. I may not have told you that before, and I regret it deeply.”

“Don’t go getting sentimental on me now,” Arya hastily wipes away her tears and throws open the door. “I’ve missed you, Sansa.”

“I’ve missed you too, Arya.” Sansa calls out after her.


	28. The Company of Wolves

Snow flurries blanket Winterfell’s landscape as Sandor spurs Stranger out of the gates.  Turning in the saddle, he looks back at the castle one last time. Sansa is there, just as he knew she would be, standing on the balcony of their rooms and waving sadly.

Even from a distance, Sandor’s keen eyes are able to make out the snowflakes dotting white against her bright red hair. Next to her stands Osha, the fierce Free woman balancing the wriggling twins on each hip with great difficulty.

The sight of her standing there sends a pang of misery through the man. The nights leading up to his departure had been pleasurable indeed, the likes of which he would not enjoy for some time. Mindful of her injury, Sandor had loved her throughout them, the man mapping her body with his hands and tongue. Sansa had sung for him, too, a sweeter song than he had ever heard from his wife, and Sandor reveled in her.

Early that morning, Sandor arose to Catya and Edric cooing contentedly in their cribs. He relished them too, nuzzling into their silky necks, memorizing their sweet smell and soft skin while murmuring nonsense until they giggled with glee and awakened Sansa.

The only thing Sandor had to look forward to on this night was damp earth, the smell of wet direwolves, sweaty men and horses, and, if the weather held, a smoky fire to keep warm. _Since when did I grow so soft_? He cursed himself as he settles in beside Arya.

Indeed, Sandor is far more yielding because of his love for Sansa and his children, but he welcomes the change; for he also grew fiercer, more like his sigil. The direwolves have nothing on him now, for the protectiveness of love and fatherhood has melted Sandor’s fears and forged him into a far stronger warrior.

He was wholly absorbed in his desire for revenge and yet every now and then, regrets seeps into his subconscious, pricking his soul. If the gods saw fit to allow his life to end, Sandor will give it up willingly, though  now he has far more reason to live: Sandor longs to see his wife and children again, to grow old with Sansa and watch Catya and Edric grow up.

His daughter will be a fine lady like her mother, and his son, a stronger, braver man than Sandor would ever be. Never before has he ridden into battle with so much to lose. It is a daunting realization, and yet it fuels Sandor’s determination to end their enemies once and for all.

“Return to us, my beloved,” he hears Sansa’s faint voice call above Stranger’s hooves crunching in the snow. “Return to us. I will pray for you.”

Raising his hand, Sandor draws his sword and gestures it toward his wife, the bloody strips of silk from Sansa’s gown decorating the hilt fluttering in the cold wind. In return, Sansa blows kisses toward him until slowly she fades from sight.

A strong gust blows a flurry of snow over the war party as they move deeper into the Wolfswood. Ghost woofs softly beside him. A small smile plays on Arya’s lips; she glances his direction before sticking out her tongue to catch a snowflake. “A good sign, Hound. My father and brother are watching over us. Lady and Greywind, too.”

Nymeria lopes in between them with her hackles raised, the enormous direwolf seemingly as intent on finishing the rest of the Boltons as her mistress and Sandor. After sniffing his sister, Ghost also ruffles out the fur from neck to tail and runs ahead of her.

Choosing to keep his thoughts to himself,  Sandor carefully studies the sortie the wolf bitch has gathered to accompany them. His goodsister has chosen well, for they include Grey Worm, Unsullied,  Lady Brienne,  as well as assorted Wildings who neighbored near him and Sansa north of the Wall. _They are a motley looking bunch,_ Sandor snorts with satisfaction, _although how they look doesn’t matter half as much as the ferocity with which they fight._

The queen had insisted on sending Gendry and Jon ahead of them with the dragons. After much debate, Sandor reluctantly agreed but only on the condition that they would be used only to cut off escape. Only a coward fights with fire first, he had told her, and Danaerys had agreed.

For perhaps the first time, she allowed Jon to ride Drogon, whose immense shadow shrouded the trail before them. If ever there was a beast who lived up to the stories of Balerion the Black Dread, it is the queen’s fearsome mount, and even Sandor has to swallow his fear whenever the enormous dragon is near.

Even with the dragons,  it is uncertain whether the war party will be enough, for no one could procure any information as to how many men were holed up in the Dreadfort. Chuckling, Sandor laughs at his irrational worry: undoubtedly  two direwolves and two dragons could take the Dreadfort on their own.

The gods had gone with them before, both together and while they were separated; even if they did not fight for Sandor,  experience has proven to him that they most certainly protect his beloved little bird and safeguard those who fight for her safety as well.

Forcing doubt from his mind, Sandor instead allows the memory of his beloved Sansa, pale and limp in his arms with the arrow bearing the mark of House Bolton protruding from her back, to fuel his rage. Sandor will never forget the feel of her warm blood spilling onto his hands and clothing as he took her into his arms. Clenching his teeth, he spurs Stranger onward, the man eager to put distance between him and the memory.

Elder brother rides up alongside him, the holy man seeming to sense Sandor’s black mood. It had surprised him when his former mentor insisted on joining them and Sandor could not resist needling him. “Taking up the sword again, are you?”

“No, Sandor; I am accompanying you as a healer, nothing more. I did not diligently care for your wife and children only to see you return to them grievously injured.”

“What of Sansa?” Sandor snarls close to his face. “She needs you.”

Elder brother des not flinch. “Samwell is perfectly able to care for her, as are the other healer at Winterfell, and you know it.” Elder brother smiles at him. “If you thought otherwise, you would have hog tied me and carried me back to the castle yourself.”

“True enough, that.” Sandor rasps out harshly. Being in the company of Elder brother unexpectedly brings back the days on the Quiet Isle, as well as the teachings learned while he convalesced there.

Lessons in mercy and forgiveness paired with allowing the gods to seek retribution for past wrongs flit through Sandor’s mind, but resolutely he pushes them aside. Instead, he slowly fingers the material on the hilt of his sword while thinking of his beloved wife, the sight of Sansa’s blood stained fabric festering his hatred for the Boltons further still.

In truth, Sandor has already found it far more difficult to leave Sansa and the children than he imagined; a deep abiding ache churns his stomach, twisting there with each passing mile.

Is it the Seven warning him in some way? If the gods are the source of his discomfort, they will not deter Sandor. He will kill the Boltons or they will kill him; either way he will have vengeance for his wife and children.

“The Boltons could have killed Sansa. They could have killed our children.” Sandor says aloud by way of explanation. Whether he is speaking to Elder brother or to the Seven, Sandor cannot say. Startled, Elder brother raises his brow at him but says nothing in response.

 _Return to us._ Sansa’s voice whispers in the wind later as he makes camp with the others. Sandor thought he heard her earlier as he rode, but since Stranger moved on unperturbed, the man imagined it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Glimpsing over at Arya, he notices she too seems disturbed. Squinting into the tree line, Sandor watches as she sends Nymeria into the brush before going about the evening chores.

After he bunks down for the night, Sansa’s voice come to him again, this time much louder than before. _Return to us. Gentle Mother, save him if you can, and gentle the rage inside him._

 _Perhaps she is praying_ , Sandor tells himself, though never before has he heard Sansa’s prayers for him. He certainly did not hear them over the din of the Blackwater battle, or the many times she prayed for his soul in the Eyrie-or did he? Could that have been what drove him to leave the Quiet Isle in search of her? Was it the little bird’s prayers that pressed him into making the arduous journey to the Wall-not once, but twice-in hopes of seeing her one last time?

Shaking his head, Sandor closes his eyes and burrows under the furs. The cold ground is unforgiving on his old wounds. Tossing and turning, Sandor curses his battle scarred body and the cold as he settles in for the evening.

 _Return to us._ Sandor tries to ignore the sound of Sansa’s voice, instead choosing to  focus on the memory of her soft body arching into his and the sound of her sweet sighing as he took her slow and deep that morning. Soon enough, Sandor is as hard as the ground beneath him, and so he gives up on sleep, rises and goes in search of wine to take the edge off of his desire.

Arya finds him rummaging through their provisions like a black bear, shouting and cursing as he does so. “Do you hear it too?” She asks softly. “Do you hear Sansa?”

“Bloody hells,” Sandor wipes his hand over his face. “I do. You too?”

Arya nods. “She is praying. I hear her.”

“All fucking day?”

Arya laughs out loud. “Sansa’s always been the penitent one.”

Contenting himself with the lemoncakes Sansa hid in his pack, Sandor shoves three into his mouth before slumping down and holding one out to Arya, who wrinkles up her nose and shakes her head. “Your hands are filthy! Seriously, soap and water wouldn’t kill you.”

Arya’s words remind him of her often-made complaint about his lack of cleanliness during their travels through the Riverlands long ago. “Find my stench unbearable already, wolf bitch?”

“Not yet.”  Grinning, she suddenly tips her head to the side. Nymeria whines softly while looking at Arya intently. “You hear that?”

In the distance, the sound of axes striking against wooden shields echoes in the night. “Aye, I hear it.” Sandor draws both swords and heads into the tree line. “Seems the Boltons sent men to meet us halfway.”

“That’s stupid-we aren’t halfway yet.”

Grey Worm slips silently beside him. “This one knows the sound,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “It is the battle sound of the Thenn.”

“What is a Thenn?” Arya glances at Sandor questioningly.

“The Thenn are not a what, they’re a tribe of people north of the Wall. Cannibals and brutes, one and all of them.” When Arya’s eyes widen at him suddenly, Sandor further explains, “They eat the carcasses of their fallen enemies. Your brother married Alys Karstark to Sigorn, the Magnar of the Thenn.”

“A magnar, is that like a lord?”

“More like a Dothraki chieftan.”

“So north of the fucking Wall has zombies AND cannibals,” Arya mutters, shaking her head. “What the hell is up with that place? And why should they attack us?”

“Probably hired as mercenaries for House Bolton.”

Grey Worm nods. “This one has met them in battle before. Before they died, the enemy said some of the Thenn have rebelled against Sigorn and chosen to fight for the enemies of Houses Stark and Clegane.”

Arya raises her brow at him until Grey Worm amends his words. “Your enemy is mine, Arya of House Stark and Sandor of House Clegane, for your aunt freed this one long ago. I have killed many Thenn and Free folk. Let me kill these men for you.”

Solemnly Sandor and Arya stare at each other while Grey Worm patiently waits for their responses. “It won’t do to get tired out before meeting the Boltons in battle,” Sandor shrugs at her. “Mayhap they were sent as a diversion to wear us down.”

Arya sighs heavily before agreeing. “Go then Grey Worm; take as many men as you need and cut them down.”

“Yes, Lady Stark,” Grey Worm bows curtly before gathering a sortie of Unsullied and disappearing into the wood.

Nymeria raises her head skyward and laments a long, lonesome howl. Ghost nuzzles into her for comfort, pawing the earth and dancing at her feet. Soon other wolves join in the chorus, their primal song echoing through the chill night air.

Shadows come alive, their yellow eyes peering out of the darkness.  As they draw closer to the firelight, Sandor notices wolves as black as pitch, tan and white wolves, snow wolves and great timber wolves are all gathering around them.

Nervously Sandor clutches his swords; it is one thing to have two bloody direwolves in the group but to have an entire wolf pack surrounding them is another matter altogether.

Seemingly reading his thoughts, Arya grins at him. “Do not worry, Hound. She is calling her pack, the wolves and wild dogs alike. They are our packs, too: your brothers and mine.”

Smirking, Sandor nods while turning toward Nymeria. Snarling, the fearsome creature leaps forward, sniffing the noses and tails of each member of the assembled pack. Ghost stays beside her before following Grey Worm’s trail into the brush.

The massive assembly of wolves follows on her heels. Before long, the clashing of steel is interrupted by their song once more, followed by the terrified screams of men. In the background Sandor hears Elder brother whispering his prayers to the Warrior.

The frightening noise unsettles man and horse alike; as their cries continue, even Sandor’s teeth are set on edge but his former captive never waivers. Calmly climbing on a nearby rock, Arya peers into the dark. “Bloody hells, I can’t see a thing.”

“I thought wolves could see better than man in the dark,” Sandor growls at her.

“They can, but I am not in Nymeria now.”

Below, the snarls begin to die down. “Come on then, let’s go see.” When she pauses, he adds, “You afraid your pet will hurt you?”

“Never.”

Upon entering the glen, Sandor sees the wolves have torn most of the warriors to shreds. Ghost approaches Sandor and lies at his feet, his tail wagging anxiously. Leaning down, Sandor holds out the quiver of the arrow that pierced Sansa for the animal to smell. “Who did it, boy? Find the man who treated with the Boltons.”

Eagerly the massive direwolf sniffs the weapon and then turns toward the cornered survivors, singling out the man with the Bolton sigil. After shaking the large warrior like a torn rabbit, he lays the broken body at Sandor’s feet.

Nymeria nuzzles Arya's hand, the direwolf having produced her own offering. Arya kneels down to the dying Thenn man, digging the tip of Wolf’s Blood across his skin. “Do you know who I am?”

“Lady Stark.”

Nodding, she moves the blade to his throat. “Thought we were civilized, didn't you? Not as strong as the Boltons, eh? Not as fearsome as the Thenn?”

 “No…I-“

“Have you forgotten that the house to whom  you are allied was sworn to the Starks for generations? Did you forget they betrayed us when we needed them most? And now, they have gone so far as to hurt my sister-what do you think I should do to the persons who side with such filth?”

The man Nymeria brought speaks. “Ramsay Bolton-it was his idea-“

“Ramsay…Bolton, you say?” Her eyes narrow sharply at him. Sandor remembers seeing the same expression on Arya’s face, right before she drove her sword into the Tickler’s belly; drawing his sword, he moves beside her.

The man slowly nods.

“He meant to kill Sansa Stark? He shot his arrow into my wife?” Sandor snarls, his entire body shaking with fury.

"Aye he did, to finish the line and make himself king in the north."

Clicking her teeth, Arya shakes her head at him. “Did you think your people are the only ones who feast on the flesh of their enemies?”

“Well, the Starks ain’t known for such-“

“I am a Stark of Winterfell, wolf blooded. Sandor Clegane is the Hound. You’re about to find out how wrong you are,” Arya snaps her fingers. “We, too, feast on our enemies. Nymeria, Ghost,” she calls sweetly. “Finish them all.” 

"No, not this one." Lifting the man Nymeria offered to Arya, Sandor shouts angrily over the sound of dying. "You bloody coward! Crawl back to that buggering bastard Ramsay and you tell him: the wolf and the hound are coming to burn his kingdom to the ground."


	29. Seven Devils All Around You

After three long weeks of travel, the Unsullied scouts finally report that the Dreadfort has come into view, though a shroud of thick fog has denied the war party a clear vantage point from which to begin the assault on the castle.

“There it is,” Sandor rasps low. “The much feared Dreadfort. Long ago Jaime Lannister told me the Dreadfort was ill-omened and even bleaker than Harrenhal. Bugger that.”

Brienne squints, shielding her eyes from the early morning light. “Lord Bolton was said to keep torture chambers there, and the great hall’s torches were grasped by skeletal human hands jutting from the walls.”

Glancing at Sandor, Arya shivers inadvertently. “I lived at Harrenhal for a time, when your brother was there.”

Sandor eyes dart to hers. “Gregor?” He asks dumbly.

“Yes, Gregor,” Arya rolls her eyes at him. “You got another Clegane brother stashed somewhere?”

“Bugger him.” Sandor spits on the ground. “Bugger that. Bugger you.”

Smirking, Arya adds, “The Dreadfort has to go quite a ways to match Harrenhal. We’ll see how it holds up under attack from dragons.” Closing her eyes, she then whispers words to her brother Jon. Ghost and Nymeria howl in response and dart toward the castle.

The thick stone walls and massive towers flanking the castle are soon overshadowed by Drogon’s ominous form. The Dreadfort’s  large triangular merlons, like sharp stone teeth jutting out from the battlements, do little to prevent the enormous dragon from perching on the tallest point of the castle, bellowing out a warning as he does so. Immediately the men at arms begin shouting orders.

Sandor has no idea what the men hope to accomplish in the wake of such a fearsome beast. It seems to Sandor that Drogon has grown larger still since he first saw him, as has Rhaegal. _The spring has been good to the dragons as well_. His musings are interrupted by the sound of the stone roof of the Dreadfort crumbling under the black beast’s immense weight. Scores of soldiers take up position in the courtyard, shooting their catapults and long spears into the dragon. 

Drogon’s thick skin, armored with bony spikes, proves impervious to the Bolton force's weapons. Their feeble efforts only serve to anger the creature further.  After letting out a deafening roar that frightens both armies, horses and direwolves alike, the immense black dragon then unleashes a torrent of dragonfire on the soldiers gathered below, reducing the Bolton men to ashes in an instant. Satisfied, Drogon returns to his perch and bellows out a challenging call.

Dense sulfuric smoke envelopes the Stark sortie, choking the men. Nymeria howls long and low in response while an unseen wolf pack adds their voices to the din. “Jon must truly be a Targaryen to be able to handle that beast.” Arya whispers in awe. “I fear this will not go easily. Centuries ago, the Boltons rose up against King Harlon Stark, and the Dreadfort held out for two years under siege before the Boltons surrendered.”

“The Dreadfort’s got nothing on that fire breathing bastard. Look at him,” Sandor gestures to the beast as he lands in the center of the courtyard. Bolton men scurry to escape the creature but to no avail: the fear inspiring animal stomps any soldier close to him while flapping his immense wings, challenging the survivors to do battle.

Faintly they hear Jon calling out commands in High Valyrian, to which the dragon responds by turning in a wide circle. The breadth of Drogon’s stride brings his massive spiny tail down on the Dreadfort’s sharp merlons, easily levelling the stone structures.

“Even without dragon fire, that monster is going to turn the Dreadfort into a pile of rubble in no time. If we tarry, Daenerys will come with Viserion.” Sandor leans over and rests his hand on Arya’s arm. “This isn't a fight at an inn, you best believe, but it will all be over soon.”

“I would not have it come to that.” the young woman answers decidedly as a wake of ash rains down on them. “The queen coming here on her dragon, I mean. My father-it is not our way. There have only been two battles in the history of the Seven kingdoms in which all three of the Targaryen dragons took to the battlefield at the same time.”

“That so?” Sandor raises his brow.

“Yes, once during the War of the Conquest, there was the Field of Fire in which the dragons burned over four thousand men. And the last time it was Jon, Daenerys and Ser Barristan who led them into the Battle of Ice and Fire.” Arya chews her lip nervously. “I saw what the dragons did to Harrenhal. Melted the walls. The smell of smoke still permeates the castle.  I grew up admiring Visenya Targaryen,” she whispers softly. “but believe me, no one can truly appreciate what that family is capable of until you have witnessed the fury of their dragons.”

Snorting, Sandor spits again. “The Boltons put an arrow in your sister- _my wife_.” Poking his chest, he hisses, “They do well not underestimate what _I_ am capable of, believe that.”

“Dearest Sansa, who has never taken a life. She’s the one person in this family who never allowed her suffering to alter her innate goodness.” Arya shakes her head. “If not for her I would have lost the belief such a quality even exists.” Sadly she turns her face to Sandor. “And yet they chose to hurt her-why?”

“Since when have men needed a reason to cause pain and suffering?” Shrugging, Sandor draws his sword. “Probably thought her death would weaken the family, make us vulnerable. They saw what happened after the killed your kingly brother and your mother. They would have done better to kill me, or you.”

Arya nods as Sandor darkly fingers the bloodied sash tied to the hilt of his sword. “You both are the Wardens of the North. Get your head in the fight, wolf bitch. It’s up to you how this plays out.”

Arya seems to understand the intention behind his words: a reminder to turn her thoughts toward a more strategic mindset. “It is up to you as well, Clegane. We are a pack and we are _not_ Targaryens. Though Jon is, he won’t use fire unless need be.” It is Arya’s way of offering reassurance to Sandor; she remembers well what he was like the last time he was burned by Dondarrion's flaming sword. “We will get justice for Sansa, for Catya and Edric.”

While Drogon continues his fiery onslaught,  Sandor gestures to Grey Worm, who then nods to the Unsullied army. The men fall into formation while Brienne leads the rest of the warriors behind them.

“I need her as she needs me,” Sandor rasps in spite of Drogon’s roaring. “She and the babes are everything, Arya. I have to see this through, fire or no.”

Arya’s eyes dart up to meet his gaze at the sound of her name; it is perhaps the first time Sandor has ever called her by it. “I know, Sandor; they are everything to me, too. She and I are two sides of the same coin, my father once said, and though I doubted it at the time, I have learned that it is truer now than ever.”

“You both have suffered far too much, you and your brothers.” Sandor pats Stranger's flank.

“It was not only the Starks who have suffered. Since the war, the Dreadfort has held Stark prisoners-old women and children whose families were sworn to us for generations. Old Nan. Turnip. Bandy and Shira. They were my friends,” Arya’s face turns to stone as she speaks. “Jeyne Pool, too; she was no friend to me but Sansa was very close to her. The Boltons tried to kill my sister, my niece and nephew and they will pay dearly for their treachery. The North remembers.”

"Aye." The men gather to Sandor. “Leave no Bolton standing, save for Ramsay. Bring him to me.”

“The wolves have come again.” Arya calls out, drawing Needle and Wolf’s Blood. “And the North remembers. We will have our vengeance.”

In the distance Rhaegal answers Drogon’s call, the deafening sound sending the remaining Bolton men scattering into the surrounding forests.

“Gendry has come!” Arya smiles at the sight of her husband lowering Rhaegal onto the castle walls. With everyone finally assembled, she shouts, “For Sansa and for the North!”

“For Sansa, for Houses Stark and Clegane, for Winterfell and the North!” Jon cries as he positions Drogon. The great dragon answers with his distinct chirping call before releasing a torrent of dragonfire onto the battlefield.

“For family,” Sandor rasps low while making the sign of the Seven over his chest, the man certain that this battle will be his last, one way or another. After kissing Sansa’s favor, he positions Stranger alongside Arya and Craven and rides hard for the gates of the Dreadfort.

“Dracarys!”  Responding to Jon’s cry, Drogon disgorges a stream of dragonfire on the castle, its impenetrable stone walls melting steadily under the intense heat.

* * *

The fierce battle rages for three days. The fighting is by far the most brutal campaign in which Sandor has participated, but even in the face of dragonfire, the scarred man never wavers. After the initial aerial assault of the dragons, the Bolton men abandon the besieged castle and the more traditional tactics of battle in favor of guerilla warfare in the forest. Grey Worm, Lady Brienne and their men steadily drive the surviving members of House Bolton and its allies out of their hiding places in the hollows of the wood.

After Sandor executes the members of the Bolton host, he carefully wipes the blades of his swords on the remnants of the gown Sansa was wearing the day she was pierced by the bastard of Bolton’s arrow.  After the first day of fighting was over, Arya commented on the gruesome practice, but upon learning that Sandor means to bury the garment alongside Lady in Winterfell’s lichyard, the young woman has left him to his own devices.

Sandor is surprised to find the satisfaction he once received in shedding blood is no longer present in him, but he fights nonetheless, the man knowing it is necessary for the safety of his family. Elder brother told him long ago that one day it would be thus, but Sandor ignored him at the time, the belief that killing was the sweetest thing still deeply entrenched in his soul. He is certain that the holy man notices the change in him but to his credit, Elder brother keeps his thoughts to himself. Quietly he offers his prayers each night as he tends Sandor’s wounds and Sandor, instead of being annoyed, follows along with him.

Nymeria and Ghost, together with their packs, carefully sniff out the few remaining men, tearing them to pieces or offering them to Sandor and Arya as gifts by turns. On the third day, Nymeria offers Arya Lord Roose Bolton, whom she found hiding among the rank and file soldiers in a cave. Not long after, Ghost drags Ramsay, broken and bloodied, to Sandor.

The young man laughs wildly, the sound feral and mad, all the while his father offers his meager account of the deaths of Lady Catelyn and Robb Stark. Arya listens closely to the men as Jon and Gendry look on.

Sandor, for his part, would rather slit their throats and be done with it but he leaves her be, for he knows it is the way of House Stark. It is the way of the North, a tradition lasting eight thousand years. It is the way Sandor chose to adopt the day he wed Sansa; one day, it will be the way of Edric and Catya as well.

“In the name of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the first of her name, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Arya of the House Stark, sister to Lord Rickon Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North, together with my sister Sansa Clegane, sentence you to die.”

After Gendry positions Lord Bolton over the stump of a nearby tree, Arya swiftly brings the blade of Wolf’s Blood down across his neck, the Valyrian steel weapon effectively severing his head with a single blow. Afterward, she kneels beside the body while Jon pats her on the shoulders approvingly.

“That was a mouthful,” Sandor mutters, breaking the silence. “Surprised you remembered all that.”

His words dissolve Arya’s weary countenance, and smirking, she offers the hilt of Wolf’s Blood over to Sandor. “Your turn, Hound.”

Cackling, Ramsay turns his head toward Arya. “Lady Stark. You and I were once wed, you know.”

“That was Jeyne Pool, you fool,” Arya spits out angrily. “If I had been there, I would have slit your throat before the ceremony began.” Turning to Sandor, she adds, “Ramsay Bolton meet Sandor Clegane, the man about to take your miserable head.”

“So you’re the Hound.” Ramsay hisses at Sandor.

Baring his teeth, Sandor stares long and hard into Ramsay’s face. “Aye, and the husband of Sansa, the woman you tried to murder.”

 “I must say I admired your brother’s work at Harrenhal.”

“Do you now?” Sandor shoves him to the ground. “Well we’ll see how well you like mine.”

“I meant to kill Sansa, I did,” Ramsay shrugs. “She’s the eldest true born Stark! Winterfell belongs to the Boltons-it is ours by right!”

“Boltons…what Boltons?” Sandor snarls in his face. “Your castle has been turned to ash by dragonfire, you are the last of your house, and you are about to taste my steel. After today your people will be nothing more than an ink blot in some history book.”

“Wait, Ser-“

“Fuck your sers,” Sandor grabs the young man by the scruff of the neck and throws him down on the same stump where his father was executed minutes before. “I’m no Stark and I have no intention of listening to your final words.” Flipping him onto his back, Sandor adds, “And none of this facing the ground, no; you will watch me as I take your head. I want the last thing you see before you go to the Seven hells is my blade coming down on your neck.” It is Sandor’s turn to laugh now, the sound low and frightening. “You drew her blood, and now I will spill yours. Prepare to meet the Stranger, you buggering worthless piece of shit.”

Blinking wildly, Ramsay tries to squirm away but Sandor places his foot across his chest before raising Wolf’s Blood over his head. With one violent stroke, Sandor Clegane deals the final blow to House Bolton.

In his fury, he has wedged the fine Valyrian steel into the stump beneath Ramsay; with a violent twist, he wrenches it free. Relief spreads over the man as he stares down at the lifeless body. He did not need to be the Hound to avenge his wife and children, Sandor realizes; he is not a good man, not by far, but all he needs is the love of Sansa and their children to give him courage. Warily Jon places his hand on Sandor’s shaking form while carefully taking the sword from his hands. “Easy goodbrother. It’s over now.”

After spitting on Ramsay’s body, he carefully wipes the blade clean on Sansa’s gown and whispers, “I swear I’ll keep you safe, little bird, you and our pups, for the rest of your days. I swear it on our marriage and on the old gods and the new.” With those final words, Sandor Clegane puts away the Hound once and for all.


	30. Dreams No Mortal Ever Dared to Dream Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glancing over at Ser Jorah, Sansa notices that while he is deep in prayer, he does not appear to hear her brother. It is as though time has stood still for the knight while a uncanny silence has fallen over the rest of the godswood. All of this is Bran’s doing…
> 
> Marveling at the gift the old gods have bestowed upon her brother, Sansa finally nods fervently. "Yes, Bran, that they are all connected and they all hear our prayers."
> 
> "I know it is difficult to believe but it is true," the wind howls through the godswood. “I am never far from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that just because certain characters believe they understand the nature of a relationship doesn't make it so.

With the restoration of the great castle complete, Winterfell’s massive granite walls gleam brightly in the morning sunlight. _Winterfell has never looked more beautiful,_   Sansa inwardly muses while Ser Jorah gently leads her on a tour of the refurbished castle. _If only Sandor were here, this would be the perfect morning…_

As they stroll the grounds, Ser Jorah directs her attention to the ceiling of the Great Hall, the Library tower, the Maester's Turret and the bridge connecting the Bell Tower to the rookery. Sansa delights to see they all have been returned to their former glory. The First Keep and the Broken Tower have each been restored as well. The sight fills Sansa with sorrow, for her father is not there to see the castle in its current pristine condition.

Sighing heavily, Sansa allows Ser Jorah to take her to the godswood. Despite the war, it is just as it has been for a thousand years: peaceful, quiet, and frosted in a light dusting of snow. Reverentially Sansa looks around the holy place before approaching the Heart tree. Kneeling before the immense white tree, she silently offers her prayers to the old gods. _Thank you for restoring my family home, and for the health and safety of my children, my husband, my family and our people. Please keep my family safe._

Ser Jorah kneels beside her and offers his own petitions in silence. A stiff breeze wafts through the godswood, stirring up the red leaves in a way that is reminiscent of a similar occurrence after she and Sandor finished saying their vows before the massive weirwood in White Tree. _The rustling of the wind in the trees sounds almost like a young man’s voice…_ “Bran?” Sansa whispers. “Are you here? Brother, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I am here," her brothers voice carries on the wind. "I heard your prayers to the Heart tree. Howland and Jojen encouraged me to listen for you. Remember what Father taught us about the weirwoods?"

Glancing over at Ser Jorah, Sansa notices that while he is deep in prayer, he does not appear to hear her brother. It is as though time has stood still for the knight while a uncanny silence has fallen over the  rest of the godswood. _All of this is Bran’s doing._ Marveling at the gift the old gods have bestowed upon her brother, Sansa finally nods fervently. "Yes, Bran, that they are all connected and they all hear our prayers."

"I know it is difficult to believe but it is true," the wind howls through the godswood. “I am never far from you.”

Smiling, she pats the trunk of the tree. "Brother, how is it you speak to me through the Heart tree now and not before?"

"I needed time to learn how to hone my gifts."

Sadly she reaches out and caresses the white bark tenderly. “We miss you so, Bran.”

“I am here at Winterfell with you and Arya, Sansa. Do not cry, sister,” the leaves rustle around her. “The wolves have returned, Sansa; your wolf has returned here as well.”

“Lady-how?” Her head snaps up to the sky above them. Even the birds remain silent sentries over them under Bran’s spell. “What do you mean?”

“Her body and spirit long ago returned to the Kings of Winter but Lady has never stopped watching over you, Sansa. Her and Father, together with Grey Wind and Robb, protect you and Arya, and me and Rickon as well.”

Sansa often felt her Father’s presence in both the Red Keep and the Eyrie; in fact, it happened so frequently that for a time she wondered if she was losing her mind.

Bran answers her thoughts. “Father, remembering King Robert’s words, called to the Hound to find you in the Eyrie. Once Sandor found peace there, he then heard Father, though he did not realize it, and allowed himself to eagerly be led to the Wall in hopes of seeing you.”

Frantically she searches her memory. “What words did Father remember?” Sansa chokes out. “Please, tell me.”

“’Get her a dog, she’ll be happier for it’,” a cool gust rushes through the trees. “When he saw what Lord Baelish was truly about, Father called to Sandor on the Quiet Isle to help you escape the Vale. He gave you the strength to endure and bide your time, and to act when need be. By the time the thing was done, Sandor was well on his way. Lady and Grey Wind protected him as he journeyed to you. It was Father who coerced Jon to admit Sandor to Castle Black.”

During the darkest hours the Starks had ever faced, the gods had acted in their behalf; it was both incredible and amazing. All the time Sansa had despaired, broken and alone, for being the last  survivor of her family, in truth they had never been far away. Her tears flowing freely, Sansa struggles to put her many questions into words, struggles to comprehend all that Bran has told her. After several moments, Sansa finally finds her voice once more. “Was it Father who warned me to return to Castle Black right before the Others attacked?”

“Yes. Lady guided you and Sandor into the Vale, to the cabin, and warded off the mountain clans. She directed Nymeria to you. She protected you, Sandor, and the babes throughout your journeys. When you were hurt, she called to Ghost and Nymeria to kill the Boltons who attacked you, giving you a chance to escape.”

Her gentle, sweet Lady is alive and protecting her from the afterlife? The thought is overwhelming and yet comforting.  “It is incomprehensible, Bran,” Sansa shakes her head. “I prayed and prayed and never thought the gods heard me. I thought I was alone."

“Your faith wavered, Sansa but the gods heard you. The old gods allowed Lady, Father, Robb and Grey Wind’s deaths, knowing that what awaited us would require far more protection than what they could offer here.”

“And what did they grant Lady, brother?”

“She was reborn into a far more powerful creature, the Wolf Mother, capable of guiding both man and animal from the afterlife.”

 “Is she protecting Sandor now?”

“Yes; your husband is safe, sister, as is Arya and Jon. All are returning to you.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Pausing, she asks, “How did you learn all of this?”

“The Kings of Winter revealed it through the weirwoods. I must go, Sansa.”

“I love you, Bran-we all do. I will bring Catya and Edric to see you soon.”

With that she feels Bran’s presence leave her and yet both the godswood and Ser Jorah remain undisturbed.  Afraid to feel,  Sansa has heavily guarded her emotions, but now all she has kept buried in her heart-crippling grief, anger, mourning and fear-now break free at last in the young woman. Elder brother had warned her that when she felt safe and secure, these unresolved emotions would demand their due, and at last Sansa finally sobs out her anguish, releasing all she has held close to her heart since her father died. As she does so, relief washes over her, calming her, somehow restoring her heart and mind.

With the help of the gods, she has survived the worst of times, and now Sansa senses the gods are renewing her, casting out the harmful remainders of her past traumas and forging her into a stronger, more powerful woman. _I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell_ , she whispers, _and the Starks will endure. We always have._  With new resolve, Sansa rises to her feet and thanks the gods that they have healed  her just as they have restored the great granite castle she calls home. Resting her cheek on the trunk of the godswood, Sansa gives thanks for her family, for those who survived to see the mighty Winterfell restored and to those who are fallen and watching over them from the afterlife.

After she composes herself, Sansa ends her prayers by thanking the old gods for the many miracles the old gods have performed for her family, dries her tears, and then slowly rises to her feet.Suddenly the sound of chirping birds returns to the godswood.

Jorah raises his eyes to her. “Are you ready to continue my lady?”

“Yes,” Sansa smooths down the front of her gown. “I am ready. Let us visit the lichyard.”

Upon entering the lichyard, Sansa is greeted by a sight she has never seen in her northern home: the ground is ablaze with alpine wildflowers. In the center three granite reliefs rise from the garden depicting the likenesses of fallen Starks and their direwolves.

“It is to provide a private area for mourning at Lady’s grave,” Ser Jorah explains.

“How thoughtful!” Hastily Sansa strides toward the restored monument. “Lady, thank the gods for you, my beloved one.”  Unable to hold back, the young woman cries anew, gently caressing the statue.

“Easy, my lady, easy,” Ser Jorah softly admonishes. “You must be careful. You are still healing.” Nodding toward the stature, he adds, “She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, she was.” Sansa whispers, reverently running her hands over the likeness of her beloved pet. “And she still is.”

The knight knowingly agrees and offers her his arm. Remembering Jorah is also a Northman, Sansa asks, “Do the Mormonts keep greatbears as we keep direwolves?”

“Aye, as children we do, before the skinchanging takes hold,” Ser Jorah replies, “though we don’t speak of it to outsiders. It frightens them.”

“I know, it is the same with us. Did you have a greatbear of your own?”

“No, it seems the gift resides with the ladies of House Mormont, not the men. I did have a very well trained raccoon, though.”

“That is so funny-a raccoon among the bears,” Sansa laughs despite her emotional state. “Perhaps one day you will have a daughter who will carry on the tradition.”

“I do have a daughter, my lady, but she was bastard born and came to live with her Wilding mother after I was forced out by my sire. I never knew her.”

“Have you looked for her, Ser Jorah?”

Staring off into the distance, he shakes his head. “No time for it, what with the wars…I am not certain she is even alive.”

“I see,” Sansa pats his arm understandingly. “If you should wish her found, my sister and I will gladly use whatever means necessary to do so. Say the word, Ser Jorah, and it is done.”

Ser Jorah’s eyes crinkle up in a soft smile. “You are too kind. Ser Davos says Rickon is doing well with Shireen and the family.”

“Yes,” Sansa smiles brightly, “it is best for now, I believe, that he experiences a normal, loving family life free of the troubles of rulership. The lad so wanted to go, having developed quite a liking to Shireen, and he has known so little peace in his young life that neither Arya nor I could deny him the opportunity. He and Bran both deserve to live peaceful lives amongst family and Arya and I are determined to see that they do.”

“That is very good of you, but Ser Davos is not family.”

Frowning, Sansa shrugs. “I know that is the northern view, but Shireen is kin to both Jon and Gendry, and that makes us relations. We Starks have lost so much that we make our own family now.”

“I understand; Danaerys ascribes to a similar philosophy.”

“Ser Davos and the rest of the Seaworth family are part of us-just as you are. If ever you find King’s Landing no longer suits you, Ser Jorah, I hope you will consider returning to us.”

Grinning, the knight pats her arm appreciatively. “Thank you, Lady Sansa; that is most kind. However, my place is with the queen in the capital.” Turning to her, Ser Jorah asks, “What will you do now that your family seat is restored?”

For some time Sansa has entreated the gods for guidance on this very subject, for ever since she returned to Winterfell, the young woman has felt more and more that she does not wish to delve into the controversies of the North or Westerosi politicking yet again. Arya thrives in her newfound responsibilities and yet Sansa has come to dread them, much preferring the company of her children to addressing the never ending list of complaints from highborn families and smallfolk alike.

 _How can I explain to a man sworn to the queen that I wish to leave the responsibilities of the north into the capable hands of my sister? Yet if Arya’s handling of the Boltons doesn’t prove how little Dany needs me, nothing will._ Ever mindful of Ser Jorah’s position, Sansa chooses her words carefully.

“I will do what the queen requires. She desires us to rule along jointly as Wardens of the North, though recent events have proven Arya really doesn’t need me to to serve with her; in fact, she is far more suited to this life than I am.” Sansa sighs wearily, wavering on her feet as she does so.

“Are you tired, my lady? Let us get you back to your quarters at once.”

“I am, Ser Jorah, but not in the way you speak. May I confide in you?”

Eagerly he agrees.

Sansa smiles softly. “I do not wish to appear ungrateful, for the queen has been extremely generous…” She trails off as she gathers her thoughts. “I fear I have outgrown this life.”

“Aye, I understand, my lady, more than you know. Please, unburden yourself.”

“It is just that, well, I have had enough, Ser Jorah. The queen has been incredibly kind and openhanded and my devotion to her is unwavering…but after all that I have experienced,  I just no longer have the stomach to be a part of that world.”

“I felt similarly for my father,” Ser Jorah offers. “Not everyone is cut out for such a life. I wasn’t then.”

Sansa wrings her hands. “I am so very tired of it all. For so long I was used as a pawn by Joffrey, Cersei, Petyr Baelish…even beyond the Wall, Stannis Baratheon saw me as a means to secure alliances. I feared I would never escape it. After I married Sandor and we were sent away, I felt free-liberated, even. I had not known such peace since my childhood here. It was the two of us in that tiny cabin in the Vale…we had next to nothing in the way of material possessions but we were so very happy and that was everything.”

“And you are unhappy now?”

“It’s not that. I am not such a child that I believe everything needs to be to my liking. I just do not want to get embroiled in the drama and controversies that rulership inevitably brings with it. Forgive me, but despite the queen’s best intentions, there will always be complications.  I, for one, do not want to expose my children to it. The cost is too great.”

Ser Jorah nods. “Does your husband know you feel this way?”

Tearfully Sansa whispers, “Yes.”

Ser Jorah pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and places it in Sansa’s hands. “And what says Lord Clegane?”

A small laugh escapes her lips. “Sandor always says the same thing: ‘You just say the word, little bird, and I’ll steal you away from here.’”

“Then he’s a good husband, though I’m certain if I told him I thought so, I would be summarily cursed out and given a black eye.”

Wiping her eyes, Sansa shakily agrees.

“I will not break your confidence, but please believe me when I say the queen will understand if you decide to tell her your true feelings, Lady Sansa.”

“Oh, but it would be so ungrateful of me to just leave her to her own devices with my sister and brother-“

“No, my lady, listen: you do Danaerys a great disservice by believing her to be incapable of empathy towards your situation. She restored Winterfell because Jon is her family and the joy it would bring you and your siblings. It was for no other reason.”

Biting her lip, Sansa feels thoroughly chastened, and so remains silent.

“I know what you are thinking, my lady. She is a Targaryen, aye,  but she understands what it is to live a simpler lifestyle, to be hidden away from the politics of Westeros. Many times during her conquests, she confided to me and Ser Barristan that she missed the days of her and Drogo riding on the Great Grass Sea with the Dothraki khalisar. She knows what it is to have finally found love and family and then lose it all.”

“You love her, and not just as a queen,” the words slip from Sansa’s lips. “Oh, forgive me, it must be the milk of the poppy still, I-“

Ser Jorah laughs heartily. “The milk of the poppy has weakened your tongue, my lady, but you speak the truth nonetheless. I cannot fault you for that.”

“Does  Danaerys know?”

“Aye, she does. She loves me too, but Danaerys wants a child, and your brother is her best chance at carrying on the family name.”

“I see.” Sansa soothingly rests her hand on his shoulder. Winterfell was rife with rumors about the queen’s barren state, that her brother was the only man with whom she could possibly bear a child. Sadly, Sansa has long suspected that her brother does not truly love the queen either, and though it is clear Jon cares for her, Sansa believes that given her state, he feels obligated to do what he can for the queen. “It seems none of us are meant to be truly happy, doesn’t it?”

“If anyone has a chance at it, my lady, it is you. You and Clegane have two beautiful children and money can’t buy the sentiment in his eyes when he looks at you.”

Blushing, Sansa giggles softly. “No one in King’s Landing would have believed the Hound capable of such endearment.”

“Aye true enough. No one hands us our happiness, my lady; you must take it,” he adds as he leads her into her rooms. “Don’t let it slip past you. The queen just received this today,” Ser Jorah places a small rolled parchment in her palm. “She thought you would like to read it. It is from your husband.”

“Oh, thank you!” Sansa presses the cherished note to her chest and impulsively kisses the knight on the cheek, then blushes and shrinks back. “Forgive me, Ser Jorah, in my excitement I have forgotten myself yet again-“

Roaring out a long hoot, he shakes his head. “Think nothing of it, my lady.” Ser Jorah calls out, still laughing as he closes the door, leaving Sansa alone with Sandor’s message.

* * *

When she married Sandor, Sansa understood at some point necessity would require their separation, for she had been raised to accept such is the burden of all women. Still, when that day had arrived, Sansa discovered she was ill-prepared for the empty void of Sandor’s absence. Despite her heartache, Sansa devotedly set about learning the responsibilities of Warden in the North while caring for their children.

After weeks of overhearing Danaerys telling tales with the Free folk women, Sansa realizes she has been reserved with Sandor when it came to the marriage bed. When she confided to the young queen that she wanted to change but did not know how, Danaerys gently told her that after her experiences with Joffrey and Petyr Baelish that such was to be expected and to give it time.

“Has your husband complained?” The queen asked quietly.

“No, it is me who sees the need to change.” Sansa whispered, her cheeks flushing hotly as she spoke. “I don’t want to allow the past to affect my relationship with him anymore.”

Danaerys had comforted her, holding her in her arms. “Then just do what you feel-don’t think on it, just let your desires lead you. Do you understand what I mean?”

Blushing, she nodded. “I do, it is the way Sandor does.”

The young queen smiled. “It is the fortunate woman who has such a man.”

From that day onward, Sansa did her best to listen and learn, and by the time Ser Jorah had given her Sandor’s note, Sansa has a clear idea how she wants their reunion to take place. After reverently running her fingers over the seal of three dogs on a yellow field, Sansa eagerly tears open the letter Sandor sent to the queen, who had discreetly rerolled it before giving it to Jorah. The sight of his coarse handwriting brings a smile to her face, for Sandor’s blunt speech is evident even in the written word.

>   _Queen Danaerys Targaryen,_
> 
> _House Bolton is no longer. All members caught and executed. The Dreadfort sacked, burned to the ground by dragon fire at the behest of Prince Jon Snow._
> 
> _One hundred Unsullied and Free folk men lost in the fighting; another fifty recovering well. All members of the Houses of Targaryen, Baratheon and Stark, including the beasts, alive and well. The sortie is on the move; we shall make Winterfell in a fortnight hence._
> 
> _Sandor Clegane (lord)_
> 
> _House Stark_
> 
> _Enclosed is a private note for Lady Sansa Clegane if you would be so good to give it to her._

“Thank the old gods!” Sansa exclaims aloud, clutching the note to her chest before searching the roll for the private note Sandor included.  Frowning, Sansa notices it is tied with a bloody piece of cloth, which she carefully unties. Inside, the letter reads:

>   _Little Bird,_
> 
> _I hope this finds you and the babes well. I’m riding as hard as Stranger will tolerate to get back to you. I secured the note with a piece of your gown, the one you wore the day that shit Ramsay Bolton shot you. You have your justice, wife, and I have mine, for I took his damned head off with your sister’s own Valyrian blade. Jon burned their fucking castle to the ground so that’s the end of the Boltons. No one will ever hurt you again. I’ll keep you and the babes safe, I swear it._
> 
> _Your husband,_
> 
> _Sandor_

Tears of relief flood Sansa’s eyes, though she cannot help but wonder if the queen noticed the report he sent her was considerably shorter than the personal note he wrote. _I best apologize to her before she mentions it,_ Sansa decides while feeding the babies before settling them down for their afternoon nap. A soft knock at the door stirs her from her thoughts; it is Daenerys and Missandei. “We have come to assist you with the babes, my lady, if that is agreeable to you.” Missandei smiles brightly.

“Of course, please, my queen, do come in,” Sansa steps aside and admits the women with Catya still attached at her breast. “Forgive me; my lady mother would scold me fiercely if she knew I opened the door in such a state.”

Both women giggle knowingly. Though she prefers doing it herself, Sansa allows them to tend Catya and Edric, knowing that neither Dany nor Missandei, who wed Grey Worm just before he left for the Dreadfort, will likely have children of their own.

Their situations make Sansa rather melancholy, for both women dearly love children and spend many hours in the courtyard learning their games and braiding their hair into various Dothraki styles. It pleases Sansa that the queen is not discriminating in her affections; indeed, the young woman is just as affectionate with the many Free folk children scurrying about the castle as she is with Catya and Edric.

“My queen, I have prepared a report outlining the customs, controversies and needs of the various regions of the North, including the villages beyond the Wall. There have also been many new houses added since the wars, and I have provided you with an updated registry as well.”

Osha, having slipped in behind the queen and her handmaiden, settles herself in the adjoining chambers. Sansa is well aware that she is wary of the queen and her handmaiden, for the former spearwife mindfully listens to their conversations and has taken to following Sansa everywhere, guarding her with the same dogged devotion that she shows Rickon and Bran. “Milady, I seen you brought your handmaiden and came ta teach her the Old Tongue, just as you said.”

“Very good, Osha,” Dany waves Missandei into the adjoining parlor. “You should come to the capital, dearest Sansa,” Daenerys comments after Osha leaves the room. “I would very much like for you to visit. Jon means to return with me when I leave the north.”

The very idea causes Sansa to inadvertently clench her jaw. “My queen is very kind but if it pleases you, I would much rather stay here. My people need me-my family needs me.”

“Your negotiating skills and intimate experiences living in the capital, the Vale, the North and beyond the Wall is unprecedented in the Seven kingdoms.”

“You are too kind, my queen.”

“It is not kindness, dearest Sansa, it is a simple fact. You were witness to many of the worst conflicts the Seven kingdoms have ever faced.” Resting her hand on Sansa’s arm, she quietly adds, “Arya is more than capable of handling Winterfell and the affairs of the north on her own. Your brother needs you-I need you.”

“Lady Arya is a fine one, make no mistake, but she ain’t ready to handle all that needs doing here on ‘er own.” Osha bursts into the room. “Lady Sansa is needed here by her family.”

Ignoring Osha’s outburst, Dany asks quietly. “What is it, Sansa? Are you afraid your husband will not agree to go?”

Chuckling softly, Sansa shakes her head. “No; quite the opposite, my queen: Sandor Clegane would follow me to the ends of the earth if I so desired to travel there. He made the trip north of the Wall not once but twice solely for the chance to speak with me. He would go anywhere I choose.”

Nervously Sansa watches Daenerys’ violet eyes glitter as she regards her. “There are very few men about which such a claim can be made. If not for your husband, then what prevents your accepting my offer?”

“I mean no offense, my queen. Please, I ask leave to speak freely to properly explain.“

Dany assents with a tip of the head.

“It is my wish to never return to the Red Keep, for it holds far too many unpleasant memories for both Sandor and me. I lost my childhood there. I lost my father and my friends…please do not ask me to live there.” Behind her Osha lets out a satisfied snort.

Sighing, Danaerys stares levelly at her. “It is too soon, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I understand, Sansa.” The queen’s voice  begins quivering, “I am certain I could never return to the plains where my husband died, or where I gave birth to my son.“

Gently Sansa embraces the queen. Steeling herself, Dany soon pulls away, wiping her eyes as she does so. “We could use correspondence as a means of council instead,” Dany begins, determinedly pacing the room. “And perhaps we could meet halfway at Riverrun, say, three times a year, for a more lengthy session, or as many as need be. Beyond that, your time would be your own. What say you?”

Pressing her lips together, Sansa slowly nods. “That is most generous of you, my queen. Forgive me, this is but a small detail, but Riverrun is not halfway from here.”

Danaerys smiles broadly and places her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. “No, but Riverrun is halfway between King’s Landing and your keep, my lady.”

“My keep? But I have no keep-you are mistaken-“

“Not long after your engagement to Joffrey, your Father had a small keep commissioned for you in the Vale,” Dany explains, “it was completed soon after his death.”

Disbelief washes over Sansa, clouding her thoughts. First Bran reveals to her that Father and Lady watch over her and now this? “Forgive me, but I have travelled extensively through the Vale and know of no such place.”

Dany laughs, her voice melodiously echoing in the small granite chambers. “I have no doubt of that. At the request of your father, Howland Reed has used his gifts to keep its location hidden much in the same manner as Greywater Watch. Once you take possession of it, however, it will be openly revealed.”

 _A keep of my own in the Vale?_ A lord commissioning a keep for his daughter was unheard of in Westeros and yet Sansa saw no deception in the queen.  Overwhelmed, Sansa labored to speak. “Where is it?”

“I cannot say, nor can Jon. In fact, only your brother Brandon knows exactly where it is located, and he has promised Jon that, should the day come that you decide to leave Winterfell,  he would gladly lead you and Sandor to it. I cannot say what condition you will find the place in, but if you so desire, you may leave Winterfell with my blessing.”

Incredulous, Sansa sinks down on the divan and rubs her head. “This is wholly unbelievable…Father built a keep for _me_?? I was to be queen and King Robert was his friend! Father had no way of knowing his son would turn out to be a monster or he would never have agreed to the betrothal. Whatever made Father decide to do such a thing?”

“Well, no one can say for certain, dear Sansa, but I think I have an idea.” Danaerys deliberately sits beside her and takes Sansa’s hands in her own. “Your father most likely believed that if his sister Lyanna had a measure of her own free will and a place of her own that things might have turned out very differently for her-and for the Seven kingdoms. Lord Eddard wanted to give you what he could not give his sister-a way out. And I would not deny you that, no matter the cost.”

“Thank you,” Sansa manages to sob out, her happy tears rendering her attempts at coherent speech impossible. “I cannot thank you enough for everything, my queen.”

Dany smiles at her tenderly. “What I have returned to your family was already yours by right, and whether or not we became family, Sansa, I would have given the keep to you just the same.”

“I-I must go to the godswood at once to thank the old gods for everything!” Sansa snatches up her cloak.

“Yes, please do,” Dany waves her out the door with a smile. “We will stay with the children.”

Not long after Sansa leaves, a loud knock resounds in the chamber: it is Ser Jorah.

“We were just staying with the babes until Lady Sansa returns from the godswood,” Missandei begins as she admits him to Sansa's chambers.

“My queen, they have come! The prince, Lady Arya and Lord Clegane have returned!”


	31. A Soldier's Homecoming

Sandor spurs Stranger's flank as he races through Winterfell’s gates, the man barely bothering to slow down for the guard. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees that his hurried pace has alarmed the guardsmen on the watchtowers, but Sandor cannot be bothered with them now; he must find his little bird at once.

Swinging out of the saddle, he hastily enters the castle. As Sandor stalks through the corridors of the castle, a deep pulsing seizes his thigh, a reminder of the worst of his old wounds, the one that brought him to the Quiet Isle in the first place. “Sansa! Sansa!” He bellows out as he looks from room to room, his rasping voice echoing through the great halls. “Where are you, woman?”

Hissing in pain, Sandor stops his frantic search to rub his old injury. Before he left, Elder brother advised Sandor to take his ease on the trip home but not for the first time, his words fell on deaf ears. So desperate was the man to return to his family that Sandor ignored him, ignored the pain in his side and the dull ache of the old wound in his thigh, instead pressing Stranger on as hard as he dared push the old warhorse.

It is as though his wife and children call to him, their shades pressing him ever onward toward home. Sandor began to worry something had happened to them, and the closer to Winterfell he got, the worse his feelings became. He recalled his words spoken to Arya long ago: “You’re almost there and you’re afraid you won’t make it. The closer you get, the worse the fear gets.” At the time he had been both annoyed and amused, seeing his surly travelling companion anxiously glancing toward the Twins, but the wolf girl had the right of it after all. What if it was the same for him with Sansa and the babes?

Cursing his foolishness, Sandor wondered if Arya and Jon felt a similar anticipation, for they rode hard and fast to keep up with him. His mental state, anxious and occupied as it was by the thought of reuniting with Sansa and the pups, left Sandor sullen, taciturn and in no mood to talk as they travelled. Mercifully his goodsister and brother left him to his thoughts. A sennight later, the mighty granite walls of the castle came into view, the massive structure bringing a measure of relief as well as a flurry of nerves into his stomach, which now nearly overwhelm Sandor as he searches for his wife.

“My lord, she isn’t in the castle,” Podrick hurries to his side. “You are wounded. Let me fetch Maester Tarly for you and find Lady Sansa-I’ll send her directly. The queen-”

“What’s Tarly doing here?” Sandor demands, turning to face him. “Is Sansa ill? One of my babes? Speak up man!”

“No, Ser, the queen sent for him when Elder brother left; he’s only here as a precaution." Podrick anxiously looks him over. "You're pale, Ser. Shall I send for him? You are in pain-“

“No, no, there’s a good lad,” Sandor growls through gritted teeth, struggling to regain his composure and deciding for once to let the title slide. “Enough with Tarly-where’s my little bird?”

“I imagine Lady Sansa in the godswood, my lord; that is where she and the babes have spent their days since you left…” Podrick’s words fade into the background as Sandor hurries outside, the man not even bothering to wait for him to finish. “Has my Lady Brienne returned?” The young man calls after him.

“Aye, she’s well and on her way.” Sandor shouts behind him. "She's got a few tales to tell you."

The young man seems relieved at his words; it is the least he can offer him. The pain in Sandor's thigh demands he slow his pace, and so he spends the time walking toward the godswood in deep contemplation. It is a habit he developed on the Quiet Isle, using the hours he worked digging graves to meditate. It had gentled the rage inside of him, and Sandor continued the practice whenever he found the opportunity in an effort to tame his darker nature.

 _Mayhap her prayers explain the changes that have taken place within me_. _Save him if you can and gentle the rage inside him._ Sandor recalls her prayer the night of the battle, and admittedly, since then his little bird has brought about changes within him in every conceivable way.  Since his marriage and the birth of his children, Sandor has transformed even more so than when he was on the Quiet Isle; in fact now, it seems, he is a completely different man, bearing little resemblance to the man Sansa prayed for in the Red Keep.

Though Sandor, with the help of Elder brother, had indeed buried the Hound, he was also determined that it would never be said that the Hound had shied away from the fight;  indeed, it had been quite the opposite,for he ran into the fray with the Boltons heedless of his own safety, so eager he was to exact his fury on the enemy. Nevertheless, the battle for the Dreadfort left him unlike any previous mêlée; somehow, rather than experiencing battle fatigue, Sandor felt settled, calm even, as though he had fulfilled some unspoken duty the gods had assigned him.

The deaths of Sansa’s enemies lifted a great strain from him, and along with it, the final vestiges of Sandor’s former persona. For most of his life, the Hound had been a deeply ingrained armor, an impenetrable coat of mail that was as much a part of Sandor as his burns: now, however, he finds the facade an uncomfortable burden almost too heavy to bear. One night on the road, Sandor had spoken to Elder brother about it. “The ferocity with which you fought the Boltons was fueled, not by hatred for your brother or bitterness over past wrongs, but by the gods-given instinct to protect your family,” the holy man explained, “and by love. It is a new experience for you, Sandor. I told you once that the Hound is dead, and that Sandor Clegane is at peace. You must embrace this blessing from the gods.”

Despite his devotion to prayer since his tenure on the Quiet Isle, doubt continued to be his constant companion during his conversations with the gods; but now Sandor could not deny that it is they who have brought about such a drastic change within him. It was love that kept him going, fueled his fighting when younger men fell by his side, pushed him ever harder toward Winterfell, back to his wife and children. He could no more deny the truth of the matter than he could deny Catya and Edric, for the truth of Elder brother’s words had spoken to his soul.

It had begun with Sansa in the Red Keep, where she had moved his troubled soul, awakened a sense of duty within him, to keep her safe and educate her on the ways of the world. Like many men before him, he had to hit bottom before he could accept help. Elder brother, a man who once had been very much like him, had given him the guidance he needed, too. The irony is not lost on him, even as he contemplates his transformation. And fittingly, the completion of his transformation came about by Sansa as well; if not for her love, he would have never reached the place in which he now finds himself. Sandor only wishes that she could find a similar peace of mind as well, for being at Winterfell did not seem to have the reaction he expected from her.

“Hate is as good as anything to keep a person going, better than most.” He once told Arya, the very person who, by sparing his life, had given him a second chance to love. Sandor cannot deny the folly of those words; in fact, as he recalls them, he barely recognizes the man who spoke them. If Sandor could have told his younger self what he had since learned, he is confident that the Hound would have spit in his face and called him a bloody halfwit. Snorting derisively, Sandor finally reaches the edge of the godswood, his eyes desperately scanning the forest for a glimpse of Sansa's bright hair.

Despite the changes that have taken place within Sandor Clegane, the fierce reputation of the Hound at once synonymous with hate and brutality, is still alive and well and inspiring fear in Westeros once again since the destruction of the Dreadfort.  Young and old stared in awe or disappeared into their meager dwellings as they passed through. Fearing retribution for siding with Roose Bolton in the past, the smallfolk respectfully begged the Lady of Winterfell for mercy, and pleaded that she not unleash her fearsome relation upon them. “Buggering fools; if I wanted you dead I would have killed you long ago.” Sandor had spat at him one day in frustration as Stranger trotted past, the man unable to resist the old desire to give those who were frightened of his appearance a real reason for fear.

Where once Sandor would have enjoyed their fear, even encouraged it and allowed it to fuel his rage; now there is no satisfaction in their reactions to his face, in their darting glances and pale pallor as he regarded them; now there had only been grim resignation left in it's place. When he rode to the Dreadfort, Sandor meant his former persona to become a symbol of his protective nature and devotion toward his family and a fearsome warning to any who would threaten them; Elder brother has assured him that it would be viewed as such in time, and for that he was grateful, for the fear of the people had proven to be a heavy burden he no longer wanted to bear.

What upset him most was that it was not merely the smallfolk who were made anxious by him. Sandor has long recognized fear when he sees it, and he saw it not only in the peasants but in the sideways glances of the northmen as well as in the mixture of fear and admiration with which the Wildings regard him. None of them even so much as used his given name. After experiencing unconditional love from Sansa and the babes, the response of the people startled, depressed and enraged him, and Sandor wanted nothing more than to distance himself from their fear and to return to the loving regard of his wife and children. Swallowing hard, Sandor chokes down his anger at the sight of the red leaves of the Heart tree.

In the early morning hours before Sandor left, Sansa warned him it would be thus with the people. “There was a terrible man wearing your former helm that terrorized them until Lady Brienne killed him, Sandor; you must be patient with them.” Sandor had merely laughed off her warning. “I’m not in the habit of caring what people think of me, little bird.” He had laughed harshly, but it turned out to be a lie.

Smiling at his words, Sansa had given him a new helm, obsidian black and polished to a high sheen, and some of the best work Gendry had ever done. It was styled to look more like a wolf than a dog, with its ears laid back and its jaws pulled into a taut snarl. On closer inspection, he noticed a little bird carved on the back with the three dogs of House Clegane.

“You are of the north as much as I am, my love, and our pack is both wolf and dog, Stark and Clegane. I wanted you to ride into battle with a helm that reflected this. Your strength lies in the past, and in our future,” Sansa explained. “I had Elder Brother say a blessing over it; in this way I will always be with you when you wear it.”

Speechless, he merely grinned and ran his fingers over the detail. Sandor had offered her thanks in the only way he knew how, by taking her once more, slow and deep before he made his preparations. She smiled and waved to him as his made his way to the courtyard, with the babes babbling happily as she helped them wave, too. The memory of it hurries his steps as the large white trunk of the Heart tree finally come into view.

Much to his surprise, Sandor has come to depend on Sansa’s smiles, her loving touches and the way her eyes twinkle with a special sort of happiness that makes him forget the Hound altogether. He delights in the way she excitedly announces his arrival to the babes; he revels in the delighted squeals of his children when he takes them into his arms. To his great astonishment, Sandor has realized the impossible has happened: he has grown accustomed to loving his family and being loved in return, so much so that he has discovered he cannot live without it.

It makes Sandor feel both weak and yet strong in a way he has never known. Abruptly his contemplations come to a halt at the sight of his wife. Sansa is at the Heart tree kneeling in prayer, just as he knew she would, her bright hair gleaming burnished copper in the afternoon sun. She is the Maiden made flesh in Sandor’s mind, _his_ goddess, the woman he will gladly worship for the rest of his days; and if that is sacrilege, Sandor cannot bring himself to care. For a moment he is taken aback by her beauty, and so Sandor stands watching while his beloved wife prays to her gods.There are so many things he wishes to say to his little bird, but in the moment, all he can do is stare in awe.

Instinctively Sansa raises her eyes to him, a broad smile lighting up her lovely face as she rises and runs into his waiting arms. “Husband!” She cries out as he lifts her into his arms and Sandor thinks her voice is the sweetest sound he will ever hear. “Oh, I’ve missed you so.”

Inhaling her sweet scent brings a warm sense of contentment over the man. “Did you now?” Sandor murmurs into the crown on her hair. After the many cold nights he dreamt of holding her, Sandor finds it hard to believe his beloved wife is in his arms at last, and he is loathe to turn loose of her.

“Yes, terribly so.” Sansa smiles into his chest and burrows closer, seemingly unbothered by his desperate embrace. “You must not leave us again; I cannot bear it.”

Tilting her face up to his, Sandor hoarsely whispers, “Say my name, lass; I want to hear your sweet voice say my name.”

“Sandor, my love, I have missed you,” Sansa blushes, all the while holding his gaze as she speaks. “And so have the twins. We cannot bear to be without you.”

Satisfied, Sandor sighs deeply and blinks back the tears threatening his eyes. “Aye, nor I from you. How are the wee ones?”  He settles her on her feet once more, his voice catching with emotion at the mention of their children.

“Healthy and happy and growing like weeds.” Sansa blushes further as she leads him deeper into the godswood by the hand. “Come with me, my love.”

“What are you about, Sansa?” Sandor gruffly asks. “Let’s go into the castle-“

“We will, we will,” she giggles mischievously. “But first, I wish to have you all to myself for a bit. Come, we are going to the hot springs.”

Uncertain what has gotten into his shy little bird, Sandor follows her.


	32. A Dream Fulfilled

Raising his arms, Sandor allows her to divest him of his tunic, all the while staring wide-eyed at her daring. Glancing around the godswood, his mouth curls into a mischievous smirk.

“Here?” He looks exhausted, Sansa notices, and yet there is a peace to the man that she has not seen since they were hidden away in the Vale. It brings tears to her eyes, knowing that duty, his duty to her and the family, is what has robbed him of that peace. It is what has brought on the return of the Hound, and the cost is just far too high for Sansa. It is her turn to protect him now.

Staring into his eyes, the weariness weighing heavily in Sandor’s eyes solidifies her decision to leave Winterfell with him and the children once things are settled with the queen.

Lightly Sandor raises his hand to her face and gently traces the curve of her face with the back of his hand. There is so much she wants to say to him, so much she feels has been left unsaid for far too long and yet Sansa finds herself too overwhelmed with emotion at present to give voice to it. _Once I feel him in my arms, inside of me, I will know Sandor is truly home and so will he._

“Yes, here,” Sansa kisses his chest soundly, pushing down her darker thoughts as she playfully nibbles at his throat.  While holding his gaze, she unlaces her gown, allowing it to fall from her shoulders along with her shift. “Here among the weirwoods I have prayed for you, waited for you, ached for you, so why should I not love you here?” Sansa feels a deep blush flushing her cheeks as she speaks.

After studying her for a moment, a sharp grin spreads across his face, and dutifully Sandor sets her down while his eyes hungrily drinking in every inch of her body.

“Crazy bird,” her fearsome husband tisks lightly while moving closer to her. “By the gods you are the Maiden made flesh. I’ve never seen a woman as finely made as you, lass.” By the way he is looking at her, Sansa half expects to be devoured on the spot, but Sandor is tender with her just as he always is. Gently he wraps his huge heavily muscled arms around her waist and begins massaging the indentations above each of her hips with his thumbs while watching her closely.

Sandor’s heated, deep gray gaze suddenly renders her shy, but determinedly Sansa puts her hesitations aside. Without needing her explanation, Sansa has sensed the man has long suspected her reserve with him stemmed from her experiences with Petyr Baelish. In the early days of their marriage, Sansa had needed his tenderness, his consideration but now the time for that is over. It is now time for her to no longer hold back with him, no longer fear his passion or his desire for her, to embrace all of Sandor as the woman she has become and not the caged little bird she once was.

Brazenly Sansa begins unlacing his smallclothes, all the while observing the confusion mixed with desire swirling in Sandor’s eyes as he regards her. He is looking at her reverently, the way she often saw the brothers sworn to the Seven stare at the images of the deities, and though she us a bit scandalized by his obvious admiration, the uncharacteristic tenderness in his expression swells her heart with love for him.

“I want you now.” Sansa hears herself whisper, blushing all the while.

“There’s nothing I would like more,” Sandor rasps, his apparent calmness unravelling as he frantically kicks off his breeches, lifts her into his arms and carries her toward the stormy gray pool in the godswood. “But are you certain you wouldn’t rather go back to the privacy of our rooms, Little bird?”

“No, I wish to stay here with you,” Sansa lowers herself into the steaming water beside him, brushing her naked body against his own as she moves closer, earning a deep groan from his throat. “We’ve been too long apart, my love. If we go back to the castle now we will be inundated. Let us love each other here, now.”

The look of utter amazement in his normally keen eyes arouses Sansa in a way she has never before experienced. Tenderly she rubs soothing circles over the musculature of his chest and back. Sandor watches her with an open appreciativeness that sends sharp tingles up Sansa’s spine.

Abruptly Sandor pulls away and rips the remnants of his garments from his body and moves beside her. Standing completely naked before her, the fearsome Hound sheepishly glances around like a naughty stable boy afraid he will be caught by his betters with the kitchen wench. After so long apart Sansa is taken aback by how huge her husband is, a man carved from hardship and war, every inch of his scarred frame covered in rippling muscle.

The contrast between Sandor’s appearance and demeanor is so utterly ridiculous that Sansa cannot help but laugh outright, and for once, he joins her. In truth, everything feels so good that it is with very little preamble that Sansa initiates their lovemaking. The reunion with Sandor has left her giddy, reckless and wild and free, and feels so very different than their last at Castle Black. Not tainted with regret, sadness, or painful memories, this is perhaps the first time there is only happiness and love between them, and Sansa means for them never to be parted again.

Several new scars catch her eye, and so reverently she runs her fingers over each of them as Sandor descends upon her neck. “You were hurt-“ she breathes out, unable to finish her thought as the feel of his hot mouth moves down to her collar bone and lower, eventually flicking wetly against her nipple. It has been a long time since Sandor has been able to enjoy her in this way, and Sansa’s head lolls back as she savors the sensation, the young woman hardly able to focus on his answer.

“A bit, nothing you can’t fix,” he growls against her skin.

Shamelessly Sansa hooks her leg over his thigh and grinds into him, earning an appreciative groan from her husband. She wants him, and her desire overwhelms all reason. Unable to wait any longer, Sansa reaches between them and positions his manhood at her entrance before sinking ever so slowly, down the length of him.

Gasping, Sandor throws his head back with a long moan and then gently cradles her in his arms as she begins rocking her hips against him. With each movement, Sansa whispers words of love into his ear, whispers all of things she has wanted to say to him in the past and yet never did, whispers the many things she prayed against his pillow while they were apart.

Trembling with effort, Sandor lets her set the pace while holding her tenderly against him. It is too much and yet not enough after so long apart and Sansa senses that he is just as overwhelmed as she.

“I prayed for your safe return here,” Sansa pants against his skin, “It is fitting that I love you beneath their red leaves for safely returning you to me, and our children.”

“Fuck, Little bird, this is like to be over with quick,” Sandor moans out as the thrusting of his hips becoming frantic beneath her.

“Let yourself go, Sandor, please,” Sansa cries out, her completion suddenly upon her. At her word, Sandor shudders out his own orgasm while clutching onto her with all his might.

After the tide of passion dissipates, the two of them begin laughing, lightly at first and then loud enough to scare away the birds perched in the trees above them. Gently Sandor draws her against his chest and tenderly strokes her back, the two enjoying the moment of peaceable silence before the chaos awaiting them once they rejoin the castle.

“Sandor, I have something I needs tell you,” Sansa whispers quietly. Fingering the curling dark hair on his chest, she slyly glances up at him through her lashes. “Something I hope will please you.”

Suspicious as she knew he would be, Sandor pulls away from her and raises his brow, a slight smile twitching onto his mouth as he does so. “Another pup is on the way?” Nuzzling into her neck, she feels him smile against her skin as he waits, a glorious feeling that goes straight to her heart.

“No, not yet,” Sansa giggles, pleased that it is Sandor’s first thought and one that obviously delights him. “As a wedded present, Jon Arryn gave my father a parcel of land of his own in the Vale.” More seriously, she adds, “Do you know the story of my Aunt Lyanna, Sandor? Do you know what happened with Rhaegar?”

His mood suddenly darkens. “Aye, she was said to be like your sister, hellfire in a skirt and all. She was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen and died before your father got to her. Robert mourned her for the rest of his days, though I expect he mourned the idea of her far more than the reality.” Sandor snorts and looks up into the trees as a cloud passes over. “I know my brother’s part in the whole sordid mess, too.”

Quietly Sansa nods. “Well, when I was born, my father was determined that should I ever find myself in a similar situation-that is, if I had drawn the attention of a man that I did not want and who would stop at nothing to have me-that I would have a place of respite, a place no one else knew about to hide, a keep of my very own.”

“You did just that, lass, with Joffrey and Littlefucker both.” He studies her silently, the old familiar anger simmering just beneath his cool exterior. “You needed that keep long ago, lass; believe that.”

“True enough,” Sansa allows before steering him back onto the topic at hand. “Well, Lyanna had no such place and before Rhaegar, it was unthinkable that anyone in his…position would act in such a manner.”

“Bloody highborn fools and their honor,” Sandor smirks derisively. “The whole of Westeros didn’t want to see the forest for the trees with that one. He was pretty and so they overlooked much from that shit stain; your pretty aunt paid the price for it.”

Stunned, Sansa stares at him agape. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her once as a squire. Arya couldn’t be more like her if she was her own daughter, believe that. Any fool could have spotted Rhaegar’s interest. It’s hardly a secret that all Targaryens think they are entitled,” Sandor shrugs disinterestedly. “Always with the ‘blood of the dragon’ and all that buggering nonsense. Your father and grandsire both should have known when Rhaegar crowned her at the tourney that the man wasn’t go to bow out quietly.” His rage is upon him and Sansa allows Sandor time to calm down of his own accord in silence.

“Maybe that is what my father had in mind when it came to me.”

Drawing a shaky breath, finally Sandor tips her face up to him and stares intently at her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that due to my father’s planning, we need not stay here. We have a place for our family, Sandor, can you believe it?”

“Place? What place? Not Clegane Keep, that’s for damned sure-“

“No, no you misunderstand me. The queen informed me that my father had a small keep built for me in the Vale on the lands given to him by Jon Arryn as a wedded present. The location is obscured by clandestine means, for at the request of my father, Howland Reed has used his gifts to keep it hidden much in the same manner as Greywater Watch. Once we take possession of it, thought, it will be openly revealed.”

“And why would she do such, lass?” Sandor’s jaw is set in a thin line. “Why would she let us just go there, after all she’s done for your kin? She expects repayment, Sansa. She meant for you to rule with your sister until your brother comes of age and make no mistake.”

“Daenerys offered to allow us to use correspondence as a means of keeping council with both her and Arya and suggested that we could meet halfway at Riverrun three times a year for lengthier, in depth sessions as needs be.” Anxiously she eyes Sandor closely. “What say you?”

“You’re certain this isn’t some kind of trick on her part just to appease you to stay here for a bit longer?”

“No, I felt the truth of her words in my heart when I came to the godswood to give thanks.” Sansa cups his face in her hands, desperate for him to feel the truth too. “And I do wish to leave as soon as may be, Sandor. I love it here but I have had enough of this game and Arya is more than capable of ruling without me.”

Still doubtful, Sandor scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Even if the dragon queen means her word, I don’t recall any such place in the Vale, nor did I hear of one from the mountain clans.”

For a fleeting moment she wonders if he will refuse to take her there. “I cannot say where exactly the keep is, nor can Jon or Arya or Rickon.” Sansa nervously explains. “In fact, only Bran knows exactly where it is located, and he has promised Jon that he will lead us to it. Sandor, I cannot say what condition we will find the keep in, but if you so desire, we may leave Winterfell with the queen’s blessing as soon as ever you are ready. Say you are willing.”

Laughing low, Sandor shakes his head. “You want me to take you to some buggering magic keep that no one knows the location but your brother?”

Eagerly Sansa smiles and nods at him.

“Then tell your kin we will leave in a fortnight,” Sandor’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Does that suit you?”

“Oh, yes, Sandor, nothing would suit me better! I cannot wait for us to have a place of our own!” Clinging to him, Sansa laughs happily in his arms, relieved to have his approval. “You mustn’t worry Sandor; the children will do fine travelling, I just know it.”

“You certain you will be happy there, in this magical keep?” He searches her eyes.

“Yes,” Sansa takes his hand and holds it to her breast. “I am certain _we_ will be happy there, for it is my greatest wish that we could live together in peace, away from the game of thrones, and that our children will never know the suffering we have.”

Smiling, Sandor says nothing, merely pulls her close to his chest, pressing her tightly into his embrace. It is too much and yet not enough to hope such things, to dream of such richness and yet Sansa knows that both she and Sandor treasure it within their hearts just the same. As the sunlight filters low through the tree line, the couple quickly dress each other, exchange a few lingering kisses and then hurry back to the castle. With the reality of their dreams at hand, both are happier than each can remember being in their lives.

* * *

Wrapped in the coat of white lion, Daenerys looks out over the lavender moors, watching as Rhaegol and Viseryon fight over a charcoaled sheep’s carcass. Jon quietly stands beside her, brooding as is his way, though his mouth quirks into a broad smile as she snuggles closer to him. Since spring has begun, she has enjoyed more peace than she has ever known in her life, even more so than when she carried her son. Yet still she is inexplicably sad.

Though she and Jon have been together for almost a year’s turn, she still has not brought forth a child. Long ago she had resigned herself to spending a lifetime without children of her own. It was a miracle from the gods that gifted her with the designation of the mother of dragons, one that enabled her to put an end to the Others once and for all. It should be enough, and for a long time she thought it was, but being with Jon has awakened in her the desire to have a child, a human child, of her own.

Jon does not understand her mood, the sadness that darkens even their most passionate moments together. He has been patient with her, has tried to give her the heir she wants, has taken Maester Tarly’s potions and allowed her to use him for her own ends at her own discretions without complaint. However, as she cuddled beneath the furs with him the previous night, it occurred to her that Jon has done such while never appreciating that she truly cares for him.

Dany will make Jon see that she loves him, she determines as she watches his cloak flowing in the cold breeze. Even if her womb should quicken with his child, what would it matter if the man she loves, the father of her child, never knew her true feelings? How could she have allowed such a thing to happen? Dany inwardly curses herself. She truly loves Jon with a depth and passion she has never experienced; but she has for so long played the role of queen, even with him, that Daenerys has inadvertently has hidden her love even from him. For all her titles and gifts, Dany laments that the right way to make her feelings known to him escapes her and it is with a heavy heart that she presses forward in conversation.

“You were most clever in securing the Thenn on our side with Alys Karstark’s marriage to Sigorn,” Dany breaks the silence between them. “Very clever indeed. She seems happy enough with the match, I suppose.”

Shrugging, Jon bites his lip. “It was her duty and she did it. Happiness has nothing to do with it, not for her nor most of us.”

Sighing, Dany silently assents though inwardly she wonders why it must be thus. “It was wise to allow the rumors of their cannibalism to stand even among the ranks. Ser Jorah told me many of the Bolton men abandoned their cause on this piece of misinformation alone.”

Chuckling, Jon shakes his head. “I did what needed to be done. What my father would have done.”

Unblinking, Dany observes Jon carefully for a moment. “And what would your father say to our _arrangement_? To your sisters married to a _hound_ and a _bastard_?” She notices Jon shivers at the word. It is cruel but she does not care; she needs to know his true feelings and in her experience a man’s first response is usually the truest.

“My father had no love for Cleganes, it’s true but I think he’d be glad they married men who love them, who protect them and fight for them and our family,” Jon allows genially, though Dany is uncertain whether he truly believes his words.

“I see. And what would Ned Stark say to us sharing a bed without marriage?”

Frowning, Jon takes her hand in his, his voice betraying irritation and something deeper, more painful. “He never wanted any harm to come to you. It wouldn’t matter, Dany, and there’s no use playing this game any longer. What matters is what _we_ think of it, nothing more.”

“I think it is wonderful, what we have. I hope it will always be thus between us,” the words slip off her tongue easily, surprising Dany herself.

“It will be, if you want it to.” Pensively Jon glances sideways at her. “You asked what my sire would think: tell me, what does your devoted _Bear_ think of it?”

It is Dany’s turn to laugh now. “It matters not what he thinks, for he is not mine. I am _yours_ , Jon, as you are mine. Jorah has no place between us. Your thoughts are the only that concern me, the only ones that matter.”

Stunned, Jon gathers her close in his arms. “I love you, Danaerys. I would make you my wife if you would have me-that is, if marriage is what you truly wanted.”

His words both thrill and confuse the young woman. It never occurred to her that he would want to marry her even if she remained barren. “I do want marriage, Jon. Are you…are you asking me to be your wife?”

“Aye, I want you, too. I’m asking you to be my wife,” Jon leans in and kisses her fully on the mouth, tenderly, reverently. “What say you?” 

Her emotions in a turmoil, Dany can hardly speak for her happiness. She has not been kissed in such a manner since Drogo that she can remember nor had any man profess his love, and if she is honest with herself, even that memory may be closer to wishful thinking than honest recollection.

Tearfully she pulls him tightly against her. “I say yes, Jon, as soon as you wish.”

Jon kissed her again, then abruptly pulls away with a mischievous smirk. “As soon as I wish? So tomorrow, then?” He pulls her close against him and begins nibbling on her neck. “No frills, no fuss, no bloody septons preaching their tomes? No pomp, no ceremony, no fancy gowns with dragons and direwolves? No seventy course meals?”

He is teasing her, and it melts her heart that he feels free to do so. Now Dany understands why Arya and Gendry married on the spot without regard to expectations; it was love that moved them, just as it is love that moves her now, and everything else seems of little importance in the face of such beauty. Dazedly Dany stares into his eyes while tracing his jawline with her slender fingers. “No, I don’t want any of it. I want a marriage, not a wedding. Tomorrow we shall wed, just as you say, Jon.”

Sandor and Sansa suddenly appear in the periphery of her vision, causing Jon to break their kiss off with a groan.

“Lord Clegane, I am most relieved to see you returned to your family safe and sound.” Glancing between them, it is obvious that Sansa has told him about the keep, and that her mind has been made up.

“My queen,” Sandor bows low before her, lying his sword at her feet.

“Rise,” Dany smiles, taking Sansa by the hands. “Have you spoken with your husband about my idea?”

“Yes,” Sansa blushes deeply. “If it pleases you, Your Grace, our family wishes to leave in a fortnight, as soon as plans can be made.”

Sandor pulls Sansa’s back flush against his chest, the only visible sign of his anxiety at waiting for her reply. Eager to alleviate his misery, Dany smiles broadly. “It suits me very well. I have already taken the liberty of having the plans for it drawn up and we can make adjustments as necessary.”

“How very kind of you, Queen Daenerys. Many thanks and the Seven’s blessing on you for your generosity.” Sansa bows low, her back a perfect straight line parallel to the floor that briefly inspires a glimmer of envy in Daenerys; for she never learned to courtesy and Sansa’s manners are the finest she has ever seen. Beside her, Sandor is gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles are turning white. 

Jon’s fingers grips and releases her sides impatiently. “We have some news of our own that will interest you,” he begins, taking Daenerys by the hand.

AFTERWARD

And so it was that the dreams of the Starks came to fruition. Sansa and Sandor moved to Winterfrost Keep, where Sansa helped Arya rule. Eventually she and Gendry had two children and moved into a completely renovated Castle Black. When Rickon came of age, he took Shireen as his wife, had five children and became Lord of Winterfell.  While ruling the Seven Kingdoms, Jon and Daenerys wed and had also had seven children, thus ending the presumed barrenness of the queen and inspiring hope in the realm. Together with their families, all spent the rest of their days rebuilding the the Seven Kingdoms until one by one each returned to the Old gods, to their ancestors and to those they had lost in winter, to begin the dream again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we reach the end of my crack head canon endgame for our characters! Thank you to everyone who has stayed with this story for the duration, your support is the only thing that has made the completion of this possible. Time to wrap this up and start on another Sansan fic. :D


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